


In Spirit

by SilusLocke, x57



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Dubious Consent, Ghosts, M/M, Mind Palace, Science, Supernatural Elements, Underage Sex, sexual identity issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-08 22:55:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 18
Words: 197,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3226550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilusLocke/pseuds/SilusLocke, https://archiveofourown.org/users/x57/pseuds/x57
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set just after Season 3.  Jim is dead, but not gone. He's back and very, very angry about the last three years--and now has Sherlock alone set in his sights. Sherlock must do anything he can to prevent the malevolent spirit from killing him, including giving Jim exactly what he's always wanted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock knew something was wrong when the doorknocker rang out with three precise, loud beats, each with a significant pause in between. Nobody knocked like that outside of a horror film; normal clients tended to be anxious and knock rapidly, while those who felt themselves members of the upper crust of society knocked with a more staccato beat, almost stately. Even Mycroft, the singular most dramatic individual Sherlock was acquainted with, wouldn't stoop to this - he'd just let himself in, stand in the doorway with his irritatingly smug smile while Sherlock pretended to ignore him to return the irritation.

Mrs. Hudson was out for the afternoon, luckily. A glance out the window didn't show any visible form at the doorway, so Sherlock trampled down the stairs to investigate. The peephole revealed nothing, and upon cracking open the door, Sherlock's gaze settled upon a very plain, unmarked cardboard box. No postage. No return address.

He shut the door and dashed up the stairs to retrieve his protective gear that had coincidentally been given to him as a gift. Mycroft had insisted that if he was courting infamy among the scoundrels of Britain, the very least he could do was take adequate precautions. Of course, his precautions were never what Mycroft would count as adequate, but Sherlock had to partially concede the point: dying from a mail bomb or a tainted letter would be a dull way to go, and he had no intention of expiring anytime soon. Certainly not while John and Mary wanted him in their lives.

A half hour later, Sherlock grudgingly picked up his cell and texted Lestrade. The contents of the box exceeded what he could safely and effectively analyze in the comforts of his flat, and it was certainly tied to a murder. 

The question was, whose remains were in the box, and when had they expired?

He didn't have to wait long for a reply. It came in the form of a call rather than a return text. Ever since "Moriarty" had taken control of broadcast television for a whole afternoon, he'd had Lestrade's full attention. He'd had the entirety of the Met's full attention, in fact, but for days they had been waiting with nothing but radio silence. 

When Sherlock grudgingly picked up after the second ring, Lestrade's voice was rushed. "What do you mean you've got body parts dropped off on your doorstep? Sherlock, are you messing with me? Do I need to send forensics or the health protection agency out there?"

"Whatever's decomposed the tissue samples in the box, it appears to be contained for the moment. Two sets of interlocking airtight containers. The refraction is such that I can barely make out the sample, but it's definitely decomposing tissue. A hand, actually. I'm going to need access to a lab with more sophisticated equipment than I can find at Bart's." Sherlock had little fear that Lestrade would pry this case away from him. Everyone was on edge after the rogue broadcast, and Sherlock was their greatest asset for tracking down who was behind it. If the package was connected, as Sherlock suspected it was, then the Met would merely be shooting themselves in the foot if they confiscated the evidence and kept Sherlock in the dark. "This isn't refrigerated, so I need prompt transportation."

"I'm on my way. And stay put," Lestrade warned though he hadn't needed to. Sherlock wouldn't have listened if he'd intended to go anywhere else. Saying these things simply made Lestrade feel better. 

Lestrade arrived in under ten minutes. A new record. 

Having left the door unlocked, heavy footfalls pounded up the stairs and within moments Sherlock's sitting room was filled with forensics officers and one very intense looking Gregory Lestrade. 

Fortunately, they remembered to bring an ice box. 

"Alright, show us what you've got." 

Sherlock had gloves and plastic lab goggles on. The effect was slightly ridiculous with his unruly hair. He tilted the cardboard box with a pair of tongs. Something plastic thumped against the side. Another plastic capsule could been seen just inside the first, and through the distortion of the plastic there was... something. Sherlock tilted the lamp on the kitchen table and Lestrade finally could make out what he'd seen.

A lump of flesh sat inside the second tube, alarmingly colored and slightly liquefied. It was barely discernable as a human hand at all; it had already reached the point where the outer layer of epidermis had begun to slide off. If they didn't hurry to preserve it, the presumed victim's fingerprints would vanish. "Bring the ice box over. It will have to do until we get to an appropriate lab."

"Eugh," Lestrade stepped back and let a pair of officers dressed for the situation step through. Carefully, they performed a visual inspection of the casing and then, once pronounced safe, lifted the plastic container and gingerly set it inside their frozen biohazard container. "Alright, let's move out. Long as that's contained, we can get it to forensics, and yes, Sherlock, you're coming, but you're gonna let our staff do the work. Was it like that when you got it?' Lestrade asked, making a face that didn't require any of Sherlock's considerable deductive skills to reason that he'd be skipping lunch later. 

"Yes, unfortunately. I answered the door promptly but didn't see who dropped it off. You'll have to arrange for me to have access to the CCTV footage," Sherlock added. He was more than slightly put out that Lestrade was going to let some dullard putter around with the sample, rather than giving him direct access. The Met staff probably wouldn't destroy evidence, true, but they would overlook things and stubbornly resist taking his directions. "We'll have to wait to get a better look at the state of decomposition to have an idea of how long ago that hand was removed and whether there was a delay in shipment."

More pressing yet, this was the first truly unusual event since the broadcast. 

Sherlock remained skeptical that Jim was still alive; he'd been under a great deal of stress on that rooftop, but not so much that he hadn't observed the gore after the gunshot splattering the pavement beneath the criminal. No... more likely, this was someone using Jim's name and image for their own purposes. What purposes those were remained to be seen.

"Right then, let's get a move on." With a gesture, Lestrade cleared the room. Sherlock was fast at his heels, allowing no room to be left behind. 

They drove together, parting traffic like the red sea on their way to the Met's forensics lab. 

Just like old times. Old times when Sherlock didn't just grab the evidence and take off on his own. So, not like old times. 

"You think this is him?" Greg asked when they were five minutes away. He couldn't hold it in any longer. Everyone in the room had been wondering the same thing. 

"I think there's a _possibility_ this is him," Sherlock clarified. He remained stiff-backed, unhappy that the tissue sample had been taken in another squad car. Sherlock wasn't fond of letting others take _his_ evidence. "If Moriarty was behind the transmission, that was an announcement for more games to come, but he wouldn't settle for something boring and commonplace. _This_ is the first unusual occurrence since the broadcast, and delivered right to my doorstep. If it's not him, it's someone who is trying to mimic him."

"And you've no idea who that someone might be?" Greg asked. 

They'd been over this. Thoroughly. Sherlock hadn't spent two years taking apart Moriarty's network of principal criminals for nothing. And there had been the year of silence after. It had been _safe_ for him to re-enter the public eye. 

Or so they had thought. 

Lestrade changed tactics. "Your brother had the _body_. It's got to be a copycat."

"Yes, it's incredibly unlikely that he had a body double. Or an exact twin that also happened to be an extremely capable and dedicated actor." Sherlock frowned. "Perhaps some remaining member of the network that I missed. Moriarty commanded an unbelievably amount of loyalty. Even after his death was published widely, his operatives mostly continued as they always had, rather than trying to take over the resources for themselves, out of fear that he wasn't truly dead."

Lestrade glanced over at Sherlock. That had to be a testament to either Moriarty's madness or his brilliance. Definitely his unpredictability. 

They arrived, evading the last of the traffic and maneuvering into an underground parking ramp after the forensics vehicle, and there was no time to comment on it further. Sherlock was already getting out of the car before Greg had turned off the engine, and he had to hurry to follow. 

"He's with me," Lestrade called to security before they'd even entered the building. They all knew Sherlock here, and that wasn't a point in his favour. 

Even with Lestrade's assurances, Sherlock still got held up briefly by security and patted down. The detective's manner hadn't made him friends, and a number of members on the force itched for a chance to find something. Drugs, an illegal weapon without a license, anything to get a bit of revenge for the insults and humiliation. When the pat down turned up nothing, Sherlock huffed and straightened his coat, then rejoined Lestrade.

"Please tell me Anderson isn't on duty right now. I don't know if I could bear it."

"He's not, far as I know. But try and keep a low profile for once and he won't spontaneously drop by, huh?" Greg gave Sherlock a fake smile as they swept down the corridors after the rest of his team. The lab was in the basement and they'd been held up. By the time they arrived, the forensics staff had already set up the hand inside a quarantined station, one that looked vaguely like a plastic sand blaster, for analysis. 

The lead doctor spotted them as they walked in. Fortunately, Sherlock had never been on either her bad side, nor her good side as she had only joined the department two years ago. 

"This has got a very unusual rate of decomposition," she informed them, looking through the glass as she worked to carefully remove the plastic casing. 

“Sherlock, Dr. Kaplan. Dr. Kaplan, Sherlock,” Lestrade made the perfunctory introduction.

Sherlock noted the ventilation hood above the station and nodded in rare approval. He walked to the supply station and slipped on a mask and pair of gloves before joining the doctor. "I'd noticed gloving had already begun, but the flesh underneath still looked like it was relatively fresh, despite some of the liquefaction. From what I could see through the container, at any rate. Either it's been treated with a substance to speed decomposition, or there's something else at play here."

"We're going to have to take a sample to see. It...looks like there's been hemorrhaging beneath the skin. That might have something to do with the unusually rapid state of decay. The muscle tissue itself doesn't look more than a few days old at most." Using a scalpel and tray, she acquired a sample and moved it to the other side of the chamber for closer inspection beneath a microscope. 

On the other side of the room, Lestrade shifted from foot to foot, no doubt uncomfortable with Sherlock hovering over their new, relatively new, doctor's shoulder at every step. One misstep on her part and the insults and impatience would come out and Lestrade could only guess how long it would be before she lost her temper. 

"I'm presuming you have a DNA or RNA detection capability," Sherlock said. He was frowning fixedly at the doctor's back. She hadn't taken that misstep yet, not enough for Sherlock to criticize her, but he resented having to shadow along behind her. He preferred to be hands-on with his work, and it was difficult to accept someone else being the hands. 

Sherlock absently wondered if John had felt a similar irritation, then dismissed the thought. John understood him. Sherlock felt and lamented the distinctive John-shaped emptiness beside him. 

That lack had accompanied him during his years of rooting out Moriarty's network, and he'd returned only to have it persist. John still accompanied him at times, but he was married now, with a child on the way, and all of the obligations and restraints that came with such things.

"Yes, a polymerase chain reaction, but it'll take some time." she responded after a curious glance over her shoulder. She'd been warned about Sherlock before, so Greg assumed she was making no further comment based on those warnings alone. "Are you sure you want to wait here?" Then again, maybe not. She glanced at Sherlock over her shoulder again, who was looking more impatient the more she spoke.

"Only two to three hours, for standard PCR. That's assuming we begin right away," Sherlock added dryly. "I have no pressing engagements. Waiting is a trifle boring, though."

Sherlock glanced up and down at the doctor, clearly dismissing the idea of her serving as adequate entertainment. His pale gaze slid to Greg. "...I'm sure you have cases you could give me. Not up to my usual taste, of course, but you're always buried in backlog of trivial things that shouldn't take more than an hour to solve. Give me something."

Greg opened his mouth like he was about to argue, he didn't need Sherlock to solve _every_ case for him, but then thought again. Leaving Sherlock down here and bored was not a good idea. And as much as Greg would have liked to deny it, there _were_ a few cases he would love to have Sherlock take a look at. 

"Alright, fine. Up to my office." He dropped his hand mid gesture and gave a nod to the doctor. "Give me a call when you find anything?" 

Dr. Kaplan smiled and waved Greg out, no doubt a little relieved to be rid of them. 

Sherlock plastered on his best smile just until they were out of the doctor's visual range. "Competent enough. She'll be able to process the samples for me without needing dictated instructions. Unlike some of the staff. So." Sherlock fixed his eyes on Greg while they walked. Impatience was still there, skittering beneath his surface. The detective wanted the samples done _now_ , and knew that was an impossibility, but that wouldn't prevent him from making everyone around him miserable once boredom set in and ruined his mood. "How many folders are in the unsolved bin, currently?"

Greg turned to give him a look as they walked. "Uh, well. A...few." He was scratching the back of his neck and pointedly watching the elevator light descend while they waited. "Been pretty busy lately," he added with a note of preemptive defensiveness. Still, Greg had learned long ago that a bruised ego was not worth shutting Sherlock down when he was being helpful. 

They spent the next two hours holed up in either Greg's office or the evidence lockers, going over file after file, most of which Sherlock turned up his nose at. 

Sally caught sight of them once from across the department office and promptly headed in the other direction, after which Greg felt a little guilty, but not guilty enough to stop. 

There was only so much Sherlock could do with lists and bits of evidence, rather than inspecting the scenes himself to look for missed clues, but his solve rate was still uncanny. Two hours later, Greg had a list of names for warrants and short summaries for how to close seven cases. _Seven_. The spike would mess with his team's averages, to be sure, and bruise a few more egos, but it would be good for their careers. It was rare that Sherlock was in a good enough mood to solve cases he normally disdained and hand them back without taking a bit of credit.

"God, what is it like?" Sherlock muttered. "How do you not see these things? What else do you miss, stumbling around through the world like this? The dental assistant was obvious!"

Greg shrugged, sitting on his desk with half a cup of cold coffee in hand. "Can't all live up to your fine standards. And I'll never know what else I miss, cause I've missed it." He was smiling. Sherlock's insults rolled of his back like water. This was practically civil conversation for them, and Greg had gotten what he'd wanted and more. 

It was at that moment his phone buzzed. He didn't need to tell Sherlock who it was. "We're needed in the basement." That was what they'd affectionately taken to calling the labs. It was certainly cold enough. "Pronto," Greg added as a new text came in. 

Sherlock was already on his feet and turning the door handle. Greg had to rush to catch up with him while Sherlock swept off toward the elevators. 

Some officers hadn't missed his way of dramatically rushing about and making himself useful in the most obnoxious ways conceivable, but Greg had. Sherlock had been, and was, more than a tool to close cases, and more than just a friend.

They entered the elevator together. Sherlock looked disapprovingly at the glowing floor display that slowly counted down while they descended. 

Greg was silent next to him, shifting in place until the doors chimed and Sherlock lurched out into the hall and Lestrade was once again following one step behind. 

They swept through the double doors like they were crashing a party, which wouldn't be far from usual for Sherlock, only to find the doctor they left whirling and rushing up to them with a tablet of her findings in hand. "You are _not_ going to believe this!" The dismembered hand was still in its quarantine case. "It was decomposing so fast because it was _infected_. At first I thought it was Ebola, but it doesn't look like it."

"None of the known five?" Sherlock's voice was steady, but he had paled. Ebola-type viruses were nothing to fool around with. An epidemic in body-dense London would be catastrophic, particularly in the poorer neighborhoods. "That would explain the advanced tissue necrosis. If it isn't a documented Ebola virus, what are the other options? We need to know what it is and how it's spread. The message depends on it." Contagion by accident might make the hand a warning. Purposeful contagion would likewise be a warning, but for something else: a death threat, possibly an attempt to carry it out as well, with the hand's former owner then a likely victim of murder instead of a mere victim of chance.

"I haven't seen anything like it before." She laid the tablet down on a table for them to see, flipping through photographs from the microscope - cellular structure, tissue damage, and the unmistakable rod-like structure of virus particles. She'd begun to compare its RNA sequence against other known viral agents in search of a match, and wasn't finding one. "From the hemorrhaging, I thought it could be Ebola, but genetically it looks closer to the types of viruses that cause rabies." Greg shot her a look of disbelief. "Either way, it's infectious. Extremely so."

Sherlock's eyes went distant as she spoke. Something about what she'd said had triggered a sense of recollection - some distant memory. "Give me a moment," he murmured, then stepped away from Lestrade and the doctor, putting a bit of room between them. He didn't want their prattle to interrupt.

He went down and in, hands raised while he resurfaced in the corridors of his mind palace. Sherlock's footsteps echoed down the wood paneled hallways. He was looking for a very particular room: the biology lab from his few years at university. Or, more specifically, the data he'd stored in the file cabinets, reams of data about biological functions and dangers.

Time stood still while he walked, and yet Sherlock thought he heard something. The echoes of his footsteps were a bit off. Like an echo. As if a second pair were following.

A chill prickled down the back of his neck, but when he turned to look, there was nothing. Only the dull resonance of florescent lights in the familiar hall. 

It wasn't often his mind palace held unexpected physical sensations in such a setting, but Sherlock had not visited this lab in some time. When he turned to walk again, the echo followed. A trick of the acoustics, perhaps. His subconscious mind being distracted by Lestrade and Dr. Kaplan’s presence, perhaps. The deeper he moved to his destination, however, the colder the atmosphere became. 

Sherlock wasn't in a rush. Time passed differently here; searching the room in question would be a matter of seconds to a few minutes from the perspectives of those around him. 

Still, something was different. Sherlock reached the doorway and found that his breath was misting slightly from cold. Even his skin felt chilled.

Very strange indeed. 

Not even the portion of his palace that held bodies was so cold.

Sherlock turned the handle and let himself in. Everything was as he'd left it. A rare patch of sunlight from the high and narrow windows gleamed across the deserted classroom floor, full of empty lab tables and empty desks. A skeleton stood propped in one corner, real human bone twined together with wires to assist in anatomy lessons. Cabinets lined the room, and one door led off into further storage. 

Sherlock opened the first cabinet and got to work.

He'd skimmed through half of it as fast as John flipped through channels on the telly before he heard another sound. Behind him, and just to the left. As he turned there was suddenly a tingle of sensation between his shoulder blades, skimming up the back of his neck as though someone were invading his personal space, leaning too close while he wasn't watching. 

And there was no one there. Just the empty room, as silent as it had been before, still draped in soft shadows. 

When Sherlock resumed his search, he went through half the cabinet before he heard it again. This time, out of the corner of his eye, a shape, large and dark and very, very fast, skittered just out of sight. 

Sherlock felt a rare jolt of fear. His attention diverted from the files towards what shouldn't have been there. _Nothing_ was supposed to be in this place that he hadn't put there himself. His palace held no surprises, only memories. 

Or so he thought. 

Heavy silence fell, and try as he might, Sherlock could discern no further movement. His eyes hesitantly turned back towards the pages in his hand. A thought had occurred to speak, to question and seek a response from the shadows, but that was foolishness. There was nothing there but himself.

The temperature had been slowly dropping. As cold as it was before, and even with the sliver of sunlight cast down from above, the room now held a biting chill. It shouldn't have been winter in this memory. And even if it were, the cold should have been outside and kept at bay, touched only from a distance of time and reminiscence, not the kind that felt like tiny icepicks glancing off Sherlock's cheeks. 

After another minute of searching, the sound came again and very suddenly. An echoing click sounded on the floor and something scurried away, just out of sight, just faster than Sherlock could turn his head. 

He shivered and rushed to finish. He'd almost found what he was looking for - memories of reports from years back, of a deadly virus that had mimicked rabies, yet been a completely different strain. His fingers danced over the edges of folders until he found the correct one.

2009\. The Bas-Congo virus. Only two people had died from hemorrhagic fever due to the swift actions taken by health officials, but the news had been full of terror. The virus had been completely different from other known Ebola virus types, yet had similar symptoms and killed in a similar manner. It more closely resembled the viruses that caused Lassa fever... and rabies. The victims of the infection had died two to three days after becoming ill, and the virus disappeared before the authorities could determine for certain how it was transmitted.

Sherlock clutched the file to his chest. Very suddenly every one of his senses told him that something was directly behind him. He steeled himself and turned as quickly as he could.

Only to be faced with the empty room. 

Everything had been left as perfectly in its place as it had been when Sherlock entered. The shadows on the corners, ever present whenever Sherlock had snuck into this classroom in reality, the sliver of what should have been warm light on the floor, the beakers and vials that lined the counter tops. 

All but the skeleton, whose hand swung leisurely from side to side. 

Sherlock bolted from the room. 

He ran down the hallway, fixated on one repetitive thought: this shouldn't have been possible. His mind had never done this before. It shouldn't have been trying to frighten him. Having the rules of his mind palace change on him was as disorienting as having the earth's gravitational pull suddenly change in the waking world. His limbs felt too slow and his heart pounded in his throat.

Sherlock opened his eyes and centered himself. His breath came in short pants. He could still feel his pulse racing. "...Bas-Congo. Do you have the data to compare the sequence to the Bas-Congo virus?"

Lestrade and the doctor were both staring at him as though he were going into a mild state of shock. 

"Bas... Oh!" Dr. Kaplan shook herself. It had taken a moment to realize what Sherlock was talking about, but she moved to her workstation, quickly pulling up a search. "Let me look..." 

Greg's hand shot out and gripped Sherlock's upper. The DI looked startled. "You okay?"

"I'm... not certain." Greg's hands felt incredibly hot through the fabric of Sherlock's shirt. It was only then that Sherlock realized he was shivering. The cold he'd felt hadn't been entirely in his mind. "Normally it's not so trying to retrieve information in that manner. Something was different this time."

Sherlock paused. Despite himself, his gaze flickered from side to side. The wariness had stayed with him; his mind had connected the cold to what he'd seen and was looking for shadows. "...it's normally this chilled in this lab?"

"We don't call it the basement for nothing," Lestrade gave him a smile, but he still looked worried. Sherlock was already wearing what was normally a perfectly warm winter coat. "Where'd you have to go to come up with Bas-Congo? Antarctica?" 

Sherlock had once upon a time explained to Lestrade the process of his mind palace and how he could physically recall places and information, sometimes like documents in a hard drive, sometimes in a real setting if Sherlock had taken the time and care to construct it, but Lestrade had never really brought it up before. It had never been an issue. 

"No, one of the classrooms at my old university. It shouldn't have been cold, and I've never had sensations from there follow me back. It's all memories. You don't think back on all the times you've seen a candle burning and suddenly get scorched fingers." The detective frowned, but he couldn't see anything out of the ordinary. 

The doctor's coworkers were moving about the floor as if everything were routine, and none of them were dressed to combat a heavy chill. Whatever had caused Sherlock's suddenly cold flash, it wasn't the result of entering an environment too cold for his coat to combat it.

Another spike of fear shot through Sherlock. The casings around the contaminated hand should have been sufficient protection, but what if they weren't? Perhaps the case hadn't meant to shield from infection.

"It's a match." The doctor interrupted Sherlock's thoughts and Lestrade's attention turned to her. "We've got a severed hand full of Bas-Congo virus." The look on her face said that this was not good news. 

"I want a report asap. We need to know how this thing spreads and how deadly it is, what the symptoms are, if there have been any other cases reported. Anything. Now," Lestrade latched onto the one solid fact they had and went with it. 

"On it.” Dr. Kaplan gave a quick nod.

And with that, Sherlock's unusual encounter in his memories was forgotten as Lestrade moved on to the real work at hand.

Sherlock frowned. "We won't know for certain how it spreads. It was assumed to be similar to Ebola virus types in being contagious via bodily fluids, but airborne contagion wasn't ruled out among the cases when it surfaced." He had made a number of enemies over the years, certainly quite a few that would want him dead, but this event was an oddity. Why go to the trouble to find a rare, dangerous virus and deliver it to his doorstep, sealed into containers to protect him from contracting the virus? Why would the perpetrator risk themselves in touching infected flesh at all? Whoever had dismembered the hand had put themselves at risk just being that close to an infected corpse, much less wielding a blade near it. 

If it had been Moriarty, Sherlock would have taken it as a taunt - a taste of an event yet to come, and a challenge to play the game with him. 

That had been something Sherlock had missed, really. So many criminals he'd taken down since Moriarty's death had been boring, petty, mundane - even those who'd been a part of Moriarty's network. Moriarty had been an artist among a sea of pre-school finger painters.

"So it's a warning, then?" Lestrade seemed to catch on. He and the doctor glanced to the silent Sherlock, and they had to be thinking the same thing. If it was anyone other than Moriarty after the show he made only days ago, it would be a pretty high coincidence. "I'll get on the CCTV footage," Greg sighed, knowing he was not looking forward to whatever was about to start. "I've got to decide whether to inform the press."

To inform, or not inform, that was the question. Telling the press that a severed hand filled with a highly dangerous virus would quickly throw the public into a state of paranoia. Shoppers would rush to stock up on emergency supplies and clinics and hospitals would get hit by an influx of people worried that they'd contacted something more severe than the common cold. Holding the information back was equally risky; if the virus escaped into the general public and caused any fatalities, it wouldn’t be recognized for what it was. And then the people would look for someone to hang as a scapegoat.

"At minimum, the HPA needs to be informed," Sherlock finally added. "They'll have more extensive records on this virus and what we need to be looking for. We may also want to consider informing MI6. If this is Moriarty, he's not sloppy. Having the virus escape and kill civilians would just be a triviality. Either there are specific targets he'd want to take out with this, or to infect a very particular portion of the populace in order to embarrass and ruin someone who will be held accountable for those resultant deaths."

Lestrade caught his eye. "Likeliest candidate so far is you." Moriarty had tried to ruin Sherlock's name before. For the first part of the year he'd been back, he'd kept under the radar, but that hadn't lasted long. "I'll warn the HPA and put together something for the press. If there's any chance this could spread to the general public, we've got to get the word out. I assume you can inform your brother?" Greg raised an eyebrow. Something about Mycroft had unsettled him the one time they’d met, and it showed.

"He likely already knows I've received a suspect package," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "But yes, I'll inform him." 

Lestrade knew that his brother was more than he claimed to be, which meant the DI wasn't a complete fool, but Sherlock doubted he knew much more. An unusual dynamic existed between the two. Mycroft claimed to watch him like a hawk out of brotherly concern, which might be true, but Sherlock would stake his reputation on the suspicion that Mycroft watched Lestrade for more reasons than mere security matters. He doubted Lestrade knew about the cameras in his office.

“Right then." Greg rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Let's just hope we don't have an epidemic on our hands. I've got to get on the phone. If you find _anything_ else, you let me know." He pinned Sherlock under a familiar stare, one that said he'd been given the slip by the consultant too many times and that Sherlock had better keep the Met in the loop. If the threat was serious, it could send the whole of London into panic. 

Sherlock said nothing, and Greg finally turned to answer the call of Procedure. Lestrade was bound by the rules of his position; Sherlock wasn't.

Sherlock turned back to the doctor. "Show me everything you've found. I'll also need to look at the sample. I have to determine whether the limb was severed post-mortem, and how." Details were everything.

"Alright, I wouldn't normally do this, but...." Dr. Kaplan knew Sherlock's reputation and how often he wound up in the Met as practically one of the staff. He was practically a consulting chemist as well. Sherlock was already ahead of her moving back to the dismembered hand under observation. "All my findings are here on the tablet. You can take a look at the sample if you want..." He already was. "But nothing leaves this lab," she finished. "From the rate of hemorrhaging, I'd guess the subject was infected to a fatal degree before the hand was removed, but I can't tell whether the virus was the actual cause of death."

"Without the rest of the body, it may prove _very_ difficult to tell,” Sherlock mumbled over his shoulder. “Contrary to popular belief, these sorts of viruses don't kill by bleeding a victim out or liquefying flesh. Organ failure is generally the cause of death. You'll want to have a battery of tests done - anything showing impaired organ function, although some of that may not be conclusive. Knowing that a victim died by asphyxiation wouldn't tell us whether it was due to lung impairment or purposeful suffocation unless we found the rest of the body."

Sherlock turned the contained sample over underneath the lab station's light. His eyes narrowed. The wrist had been severed cleanly, without any damage to the bone or ragged gashes. Which meant someone knew their anatomy, and the victim hadn't struggled during the amputation. Hemorrhaging from the virus made it incredibly difficult to tell whether it was a pre- or post-mortem wound, but for the unusual texture on one side. The victim's hand had been palm-down during amputation; blood seepage was more intense on one side, and the vessels had contracted after severing. Without the heart pumping, bleeding had been predominantly one-sided. "Regardless, the amputation was not the cause of death."

They worked over the hand for the better part of the next two hours. 

Dr. Kaplan had brought up what data she could about the known cases of Bas-Congo virus. With her information combined with Sherlock's search of his own mental database, they determined that an aerosol dispersant would likely transmit the virus as well as contact with fluids, which only added a new level of danger to the situation. 

Lestrade called Sherlock back up to the offices to help find anything in the CCTV footage they were missing. They'd caught the delivery on camera, but couldn't follow the culprit after a series of taxi cab pickups. He looked to be male, at least six feet, face obscured with a hoodie. Sherlock was able to determine a possible military background from both the man's pace and stance and the way observed his surroundings, but little else. 

It was early evening by the time the call came in. Another package had arrived in one of the outlying suburbs, this time without a plastic container.

"Quarantine whoever intercepted it," Sherlock ordered. "And check with Dr. Kaplan. There aren't any official treatments in the case of infection, but she should have access to reports of unofficial treatments that have been tried." Surviving infection was rare, but not impossible. Containment was still the primary concern. "Who was the target?" 

"Just a family. Far as I can tell," Greg hung up his phone while members of the Met dashed around them, following Sherlock's orders after only a cursory wave from Lestrade to get them moving. He took to the halls with Sherlock fast at his heels. "Guy's an insurance salesman, he's the one who picked up the box. No ties to law enforcement, big business, government. We're checking on relatives, but I think it'll come up clean. He's a nobody. Wife was home. Kid's at the neighbor's. This was random." 

They climbed into Lestrade's car and followed the sirens. Over the radio they were notified the first responders had been informed and HPA was on their way. Their destination lay in East Barnet.

Sherlock hadn't missed anything in his own box. Of this, he was certain. His box was a warning, a declaration of intent. If this was Moriarty, the second box wouldn't be truly random. Perhaps the victim would be, but there would be a message, a puzzle. Moriarty understood the Game; an imposter wouldn't.

He wouldn't admit as much to anyone, but part of Sherlock hoped it wasn't an imposter. 

Moriarty had shown warning signs, but Sherlock hadn't really expected the criminal to kill himself and leave Sherlock alone on the rooftop. He'd outwitted the murder-suicide, just barely, but now was left with a conspicuous absence on the other side of the chess board. No other opponent could match up.

"Another hand, or something different this time?"

"A foot," Greg cocked his head in distaste. "Makes you wonder if we're going to keep getting body parts until they run out." 

By the time they made it to the house the sky was darkening and clouds were rolling in. Greg didn't know whether rain would interfere with their quarantine efforts, but he still swore when he got out of the car. 

HPA were already on the scene, setting up a taped off perimeter and trying to determine whether the intended victim and his wife had been infected. The Met officers were sectioned off from the scene and delegated to keeping watch. 

Not Lestrade. "Let's see what's going on." They moved up the walkway, a little wary of getting too close, before they were stopped by an HPA officer. Greg flashed his badge and demanded to know how the situation looked. 

"Too early to tell. We've taken their boy into custody to hand him off to relatives. We won't know whether Mr. and Mrs. Forthert are infected until their blood samples have finished processing." The HPA officer grimaced. "Nasty stuff, this. We don't know much about this strain."

"Do you have the foot contained?" Sherlock interrupted. "I have to inspect the crime scene. That includes the severed limb." Sherlock didn't doubt they only had so much time before another piece was deposited on some poor sod's doorstep, but even he wasn't so rash as to dash through the quarantine line and infect himself.

"Yes, we've got it contained, but you'll have to suit up." The officer was eyeing Sherlock up and down, no doubt trying to figure out who he was. 

"We've got a hand," Greg interrupted, "Arrived around noon. We need to see if they're a match."  
The officer, looking much more mollified, gave them suits and gloves and face masks, everything Sherlock usually did his best to avoid. There was no way around it today, however. 

Once properly suited up, they were let inside. 

There on the dining table was the cardboard box, similar to the one that had arrived on Baker Street. The foot itself had been moved into a plastic container next to it and was being inspected by two HPA officers. A third and fourth were checking over the Fortherts, sitting in the kitchen and looking very pale. 

Observing from behind thick plastic lenses and a mask was... less than optimal. Sherlock wasn't going to fight over concerns about contamination and safety this time, but it slowed down his process. He felt like he was moving too slowly, and his breath fogged his protective eyewear slightly and sounded loud to his own ears.

Nothing, absolutely nothing. The box was the same - same cardboard type, dimensions, and construction, unmarked but likely to have been obtained from the same source. No notes inside, and someone had already thought to dust for prints. No one who knew they were working with deadly virus-infested tissue would be so careless as to leave prints.

The foot sample was in the same state of decay, and of the right size to be a possible match with the hand. Sherlock filed this note away and swept back out to the front of the house to examine the doorstep. No trace pieces of evidence that he could find, and CCTV cameras were much sparser in the suburbs. A quick examination of the street turned up nothing; there'd be no video footage to assist them here. They wouldn't even know if the same man had dropped the package off.

Greg joined him on the porch, glad to get rid of his mask. "So do you think they're a match?" he asked, but at the same time his phone went off. He had to dig through layers of the hazmat suit and his jacket just to fish it out. "What?" He turned away, face falling. Something else had happened. "Has the Commissioner been notified? Yes. Alright." 

When he hung up, Greg looked up at Sherlock with a pained expression. "Another one's been found. Package left at the airport. Never made it onto a plane, but they're shutting the place down. Don't think anyone's been in contact with it, but..." 

"He's getting quicker. Get us there, _now_." Sherlock stalked off towards the squad car they'd arrived in, trailing a flustered DI behind him. "The victim is likely to be the same, but a DNA test will have to confirm it. Or perhaps we'll find enough boxes to put the entire jigsaw back together."

Sherlock got into the passenger side. Lestrade had just taken his seat at the wheel when Sherlock's phone rang. A glance at the name on the caller ID made his stomach clench, but for once he ignored the impulse to just let it go to voicemail. "Yes?"

"Ah, answering for once. Good." Sherlock grimaced at the patronizing tone filling his ears. "I thought it wise to inform you that I'll be increasing your security detail. That plane that was supposed to send you to Eastern Europe? It never would have made it if I hadn't recalled you. Someone tampered with the wiring and would have forced a premature landing, if not caused a crash."

"Today is just full of good news, then. We've got a mailbomber who's decided that the Bas-Congo virus makes for a more exciting weapon than regular explosives." Sherlock felt a small bit of satisfaction at the silence that followed. He'd surprised Mycroft. "The latest hit Heathrow airport. We're on our way there."

Lestrade did a double take from the driver's seat before he realized who Sherlock must be talking to. He stepped on the gas, putting on his lights and passing traffic left and right. 

"You are not to get yourself infected, do you h-" Sherlock switched his phone off and dropped it in his pocket before his brother could finish nagging at him to stay safe. He wasn't a child anymore, no matter what Mycroft might think.

It wasn't long before they encountered another detail of squad cars heading for the airport. Lestrade wouldn't have control there, but he would at least be able to get them in and on the scene. 

Traffic was jammed. Pedestrians, airport security, travelers, and staff lined the walkways after having been evacuated. They parked on the sidewalk and once again Lestrade was tailing Sherlock as he jogged up on long legs to the third gate, where the commotion seemed to be centered.

Sherlock disregarded the barriers that had been put up to keep people out and made a beeline for the station supplying protective gear rather than where he assumed the next sample was. He could hear Lestrade behind him, mollifying the personnel he'd ran past and supplying his credentials.

By the time Greg finally caught up, Sherlock had on mask and gear. Lestrade didn't even bother. "You check out the evidence, I'm going to see if they know how this all played out." They needed to know at what time the box had been dropped rather than the time it had been found and how that compared to the time of the last drop. That might tell them how many players there were in on this game. Lestrade wouldn't be able to tell one dismembered hand from another anyway. 

Thanks to him, the necessary excuses had at least been made for Sherlock's involvement. 

Sherlock brushed past the staff and finally got to the center of everyone's attention. 

The sight that greeted him nearly made him sigh in pleasure. 

A severed head lay in a box. Glassy eyes were rolled up and the victim's tongue was swollen and protruding slightly outside of the mouth. Her mouth. The victim was a woman and, judging from the dried blood that had leaked out from various orifices and the wounds around the stump of her neck, she had died from the virus, rather than from the decapitation. Combined with the fingerprints they could extract from the severed hand, the Met would be able to supply him with the victim's name and personal data.

The woman was no one Sherlock recognized. Not unless she'd been a client that he'd later deleted. If there was a reason she'd been targeted, it hadn't been due to personal connections to him.

Lestrade was talking to another DI off in the distance, no doubt comparing notes. Personnel moved mechanically around Sherlock as they inspected the tissue of the head and its placement relative to the environment. They'd been started scouring the cameras from the moment they'd discovered the head, but from Lestrade's sour expression it didn't look like they'd found any more than he and Sherlock already had. All in all, the head was far more interesting.

Just as he was staring into the woman's lifeless gaze, Sherlock felt a prickle of cold run up his back. 

He thought he saw something in her expression. He stooped and, despite every instinct in him that told him to get away, leaned closer. There'd been something in her eyes - a flicker, something that had caught the light. 

He was only inches away when he saw it again. She’d had brown eyes, now glazed over in death, but still they reflected slightly. Sherlock could see himself in them and, just behind him, what looked like another face. 

A face that shouldn't have been there. 

Sherlock froze, and in that instant the head gurgled, enough for a sticky, tarlike trickle of half-dried blood to make its way out of her mouth. The detective jumped backwards as quickly as he could.

One of the specialists put out a hand to back the rest of the team away, just until they were sure the trickle had stopped and nothing else was going to spatter. 

Lestrade, seeing the commotion from afar, dashed as close as he dared get. "What happened!" 

While Sherlock was getting his bearings, the team went back to work, unfazed. A few of them glanced skeptically at the consulting detective. 

Sherlock was already rising to his feet and dusting himself off. He could feel his heartbeat in his throat. He took a couple of deep breaths to give his voice time to resettle; he didn't want Lestrade to know he'd been shaken. "Nothing, really. I thought something might have been lodged at the edge of the victim's eye, something other than dried blood. I went to get a closer look and... well. The rest of her passageways are clogged, apparently, so gas escaped from her mouth and brought more blood with it. Nothing I haven't seen before, but I haven't been so close to a serious bloodborne virus, either."

Lestrade nodded. That was a perfectly legitimate reason to get out of the way when blood started flowing. He'd just never known Sherlock to be so jumpy. "We've got an ID on her. Andrea Welsh. _Doctor_ Andrea Welsh. Just so happened to be one of the top researchers in virology in the city." Greg frowned down at the head. "Needless to say, I don't think she did this to herself." 

"No, certainly not." That explained where samples of the virus might have come from, but not the motive or goal. "Any other disappearances around her? Coworkers, family, friends. Someone who might have gained access to her workplace by using her badge, or who already worked there with her. We're looking for either someone who aided in the crime, or potential future victims."

A secondary thought gripped Sherlock. "...I'll also need to know what she was working on. Her research. Whether she specialized in particular strains. If someone broke into her lab for dangerous pathogens to use as weapons, they might have also been looking for information on how to utilize it in ways the general public hasn't seen before."

"Finding out on the work situation now. Apparently she'd been out of touch for a couple days, didn't show up to work, but nobody really noticed. Clinic was used to working odd hours and such." Lestrade didn't look happy. It was going to be hard to pin down a time of disappearance. "This is escalating. First a house in the suburbs, then the airport. Our PR guy is on the news. We're going public whether we like it or not." It was for the best, Lestrade knew, but they were playing into the hands of whoever was behind this. 

Greg took a moment to fix Sherlock in his gaze. "Does this look like him?" 

Before Sherlock could open his mouth to answer, he could have sworn he heard a low, sweet sound, the faintest whisper, as if floating in on a nonexistent wind.

Sherlock's gaze shifted without thinking, leaving Greg's face to try to find the source of the sound. As before, there was nothing. If Sherlock hadn't known he was completely clean since his attempt to fool Magnusson, he might have attributed all of this to withdrawal. Clearly, something was wrong and tampering with his senses. He shouldn't have felt this unnerved.

"The rapid escalation is very much like Moriarty, but we still lack a message. The body parts are similar to how he'd try to taunt me, but... Let's just say I'm unconvinced. Starting fires just to watch people dance wouldn't be so unusual if he was targeting someone else, but the first body part was sent to me. If it was Moriarty, I think it would feel more... personal." Particularly given their last encounter.

Lestrade opened his mouth to respond, but his phone buzzed again. He picked up and ducked his head, trying to drown out the noise in the background. He nodded and made noises of assent a couple times before his face turned pinched. "Shit." He lowered the phone and turned to Sherlock. "One of her coworkers has been missing from work for a week. Family can't get hold of him. Dr. Alex Russell. Both worked at the MRC Medical Research center. He's got an apartment near Brent Cross."

Just as Lestrade was turning away, something brushed up the back of Sherlock's neck. 

Sherlock shivered and reached to touch the spot. His gloved hands met plastic covering. He was still decked out in protective gear, enough that he shouldn't have felt anything. 

Perhaps fear had caused him to perspire. The detective shook himself and followed Lestrade away from the crime scene, ready to strip off their gear and head out.

"Send someone to the MCR to pull security footage and check their inventory,” Sherlock had to call over his shoulder while they were helped to undress. “I'll need to know if their work overlapped on any significant projects, particularly virus-related ones. We're going to Dr. Russell's apartment." Far more likely for the man to be kidnapped close to home than directly outside a building with a significant amount of security.

"Right." Lestrade grabbed a sergeant and went over the new plan while Sherlock stepped out of the last of the safety gear. In five minutes they were back in the car, making a hasty retreat through the congested traffic and the London drizzle. 

Once they escaped the airport, moving through the city with Lestrade's sirens went more smoothly. Still, Sherlock could only stare out the window as they headed north. Rain pattered down its side, painting streaks across his view and dulling the buildings beyond. Lights were coming on, the nightlife just beginning to wake up and move out onto the streets. His warm breath fogged the scenery. 

Minutes ticked by and soon Greg was parking. The neighborhood in Brent Cross Dr. Russell had resided in looked modest but was well kept and firmly middle class. Just as Sherlock was about to open the door, the air shifted. Something changed, like an electricity spark, the crackle of lightning where there was none.

Sherlock felt like he was being followed. 

He had no idea if he was suffering from poor sleep, or an early-onset illness, or perhaps just being on-edge since Moriarty’s video transmission. Waiting for disaster to hit, something bigger than even would-be virus bombs. He was seeing Moriarty where he couldn't possibly be, and a lack of him from where everyone else suspected his hand. 

Sherlock wondered if it was possible for two criminals to be stalking him at once - one new one with an unknown motive, and Moriarty watching from the shadows and gauging Sherlock’s performance. Waiting to see if he was still a worthy adversary to play with.

Dr. Russell's front door was locked, but the back proved not to be. Sherlock opened his magnifying glass and found subtle, telltale marks; the back door had been picked, the alarm quickly turned off. Someone professional, then, who hadn't wanted to draw attention to the break-in.

Lestrade and a pair of uniformed officers were reluctantly set behind him. They didn't expect to run into trouble, but safety protocol said they should be the first ones in the house. Sometimes, it was almost easier on Lestrade when Sherlock went off and did these things without them. He never liked allowing Sherlock in the lead. 

A cursory shout for Dr. Russell told them no one was home, as they'd expected, and once inside the officers moved from room to room in a sweeping search along with Sherlock's warning not to disturb anything. As if they needed to be told. 

The place was empty. And clean. 

Too clean. 

Sherlock slid into observational mode, deadpan as he stalked through the house looking for clues. His posture contorted every so often as he bent to examine things closer, or from different angles - a hawk pecking through debris, trying to spot where his prey has disappeared to.

"The table's been moved." Sherlock's voice split the silence and startled the nearest office. The detective pointed so Lestrade could get a better look. "Scuff marks against the wall, recently cleaned off with formaldehyde-melamine-sodium foam. It leaves a slight residue behind that you can spot if you look at the right angle. The table was dusted before the items were replaced - the surface is slightly cleaner than other ones in this room, suggests that someone didn't want to leave signs that this had been disturbed by merely replacing the objects on top and leaving dust streaks. The table also wasn't set back in quite the same location. Someone vacuumed before they left to remove trace evidence, but when a piece of furniture has resided in the same place for years, the indentation it leaves cannot be removed with a few sessions of vacuuming."

The other officers glanced at Sherlock with that all too common wide eyed look of surprise. Lestrade was less phased. 

"Sign enough of a struggle for me," Greg announced. "So if Russell's been abducted, same as Welsh, where were they taken? Assuming it was their work that allowed our suspect to get his hands on a virus like that, he'd have had to go to their lab. Or send one of them to the lab." His phone was buzzing again and he picked it up mid sentence. The call didn't take long. "Just confirmed with the guys over at MCR, they've got samples missing."

Sherlock was moving from closet to closet. He finally located the vacuum cleaner in question. "...bag's been removed. We're looking at a professional, one who knew he'd have time to be methodical." The question was, why send Sherlock a clue at all? He hadn't been targeted for primary infection, and the corpse pieces had been dispersed at random, and quickly, in order to keep them running and spark a public panic.

"...has anyone else not shown up for work? Other lab specialists. Not necessarily from MCR, but other medical facilities." Sherlock began pacing. As infectious as this type of virus was, airbourne infection wasn't a certainty. If the culprit behind this wanted to weaponize it, he'd want a more failsafe method of distribution. "...we're nearly to flu season, aren't we."

Lestrade blinked, not following. "...yeah?" 

The two officers in the background meanwhile called in Sherlock's request, trying to find out if anyone else was missing from the MCR lab first. It would be a task to find out if there were workers missing from other labs; they'd have to call one by one and hope that they hadn't missed any. 

Sherlock looked like he was thinking at breakneck speed, eyes darting back and forth, seeing something unfold in his mind that Greg couldn't yet. 

"Spreading via the air isn't a certainty with this strain, because it's unproven and doesn't hold true with better-known Ebola virus strains. Body fluids are the major form of contamination, and thwarted by good quarantine techniques. Even if the packaging technique infected a few people here or there, it wouldn't be enough to cause an epidemic and it places the delivery person at severe risk of being caught and allowing us to find who's behind it." Sherlock met Greg's eyes. "Routine scheduled blood transfusions are rare, so infecting blood bank supplies wouldn't be beneficial. But there's one major event where, at least once a year, the majority of the populace follows the recommendations of health professionals and allows a nurse to inject them with a weakened or disabled form of a disease, trusting it to shield them from more dangerous illness. Flu vaccines. With a few specialists who know how to cultivate the right cells and create vaccines, one could simply make live, injectable forms of the virus and mislabel them as influenza vaccines, then distribute them to clinics. Widespread distribution, instant epidemic."

The room went silent. Greg swore under his breath. Sherlock had captured the attention of every officer, their phones forgotten in their hands. 

Lestrade was the first to into action, pointing at his team. "Find out if there are any vaccine manufacturers nearby and get them on the phone _now_. We need to find out if they've been contaminated."

The reply came quickly. "One in Sussex, two in Cambridge. And a few more outside the area." 

"Get somebody out to each, and warn them to shut down in the meantime. We're heading to Cambridge. Let's move!" The team followed Greg swiftly back outside and into the rain. It was coming steadily now and they all ducked, phoning in to the station for help. Cambridge was their best bet, but it could be any company nearby. 

In the middle of the commotion, however, Sherlock's phone vibrated. A single text popped up on the screen. 

_So did you... Miss me?_

Sherlock glanced up. Greg was already moving ahead, the other officers in tow. He had a few moments before they noticed he'd fallen back.

The text's number was blocked, no doubt rerouted in such a way to make it untraceable, but Sherlock bet that he could send a text back. _Surprised it took this long. I would have thought you would miss the Game. You abandoned the board and let me take all of your pawns._

The next text came in instantly. _You can't fool me, Sherlock. You still don't believe it's really me, do you? That's unfortunate. Up on that roof all those years ago, do you remember? I told you we were the same and you agreed. You told me you weren't on the side of the angels. And still you didn't complete my story. I'd like to fix that now._

Lestrade and the other officers were shouting back and forth about something, negotiating logistics just long enough to give Sherlock another moment's worth of time. 

_Self-inflicted gunshot wounds to the head are rarely survivable._ And yet, a flicker of doubt passed through Sherlock. Unlikely as it was that Moriarty had survived, much less survived and become high-functioning again, it wasn't completely impossible. It would explain why Sherlock had been able to take down the network unimpeded; if Moriarty had been trying to recover, he wouldn't have been able to focus on anything else. _Is that what this is, bitterness that we both faked it?_

Sherlock couldn't let Moriarty endanger everyone again. 

If it was him, he wouldn't hesitate to rip apart everyone he knew Sherlock cared about: Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft. His parents. John and Mary, and their yet-unborn daughter. The thought of it sent tingles up Sherlock's spine. He didn't feel anything for most people, but when he did, feelings tended to run deep and were hard to root out again.

His phone chimed again. _You were faking. I was faking. We could be suicide buddies, don't you think? Come on Sherlock, don't you want to see me again? Just for old time's sake?_

The wind suddenly howled, blowing a gust against Sherlock's tall frame and sending icy prickles through the opening of his coat collar. For a split second he got that sense of a presence standing just behind him again, as though someone were there looming just out of sight over his shoulder, but the violent burst dissipated as quickly as it had come. 

Sherlock thought quickly. Lestrade had finally paused at the car and looked up, waiting for Sherlock to join them. He shook his head; Lestrade couldn't be risked in this, and if he knew, he'd want to be there as backup. 

"I have something to take care of first. Go," Sherlock shouted. He could only hope Greg assumed he was delaying in order to meet with his brother and provide further backup for containing the danger.

His hands moved quickly over his phone screen. _Where?_

_61 Willow Walk, Tower Bridge. Come and get me._

Sherlock recognized the location, back in the heart of London, a self storage business next to a complex of warehouses.

Lestrade shook his head in nervous irritation but climbed into the car with the others. He couldn't afford to wait. Their lights came on and they drove away, splashing water up onto the sidewalk as they went. 

The sky was nearly black now and Lestrade’s car was just a beacon of flashing lights down the road as they sped away.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock called a cab. His thoughts were a tangle while he waited. What if it _was_ Moriarty? No one else had been on the rooftop. No one else should have been privy to their conversation. Moriarty hadn't called his snipers to tell them to back off and, in the end, Mycroft's men had managed to take down each one who was camped by their target.

Sherlock had been at a loss since he’d gotten back, truth be told. He'd had a purpose when he'd gone underground, rooting out Moriarty's network so that the people he cared about would be safe. And then he'd returned and John, _his_ John, had moved on. He'd found a delightful woman, and he was happy, and Sherlock wouldn't destroy that happiness for the world, but nothing would ever be the same again. Mary had made an effort to allow them time together, but things hadn't reconnected in quite the same way. John was busier. John had other priorities to think about. John couldn't risk himself in the same way anymore, couldn't drop everything to play the Game whenever it arose, and this would only become more true once their daughter was born. It _was_ the end of an era. 

That had been the reason Sherlock hadn't been overly distraught at the idea of sacrificing his life in return for John Watson's safety and happiness. There were things he couldn't get back again, and even Magnussen had proven a disappointment.

_"You were the best distraction, and now I don't even have you. Because I've beaten you."_

Sherlock could remember his adversary’s words clearly, as if the rooftop were only yesterday. 

He had to go. He had to see if Moriarty had truly survived.

When it came, Sherlock directed the cab back to Baker Street for a brief stop before continuing on to Tower Bridge, not knowing what to expect when he arrived.

They passed over darkened train tracks and streets deserted but for the headlights of passing cars. The few pedestrians with umbrellas had faded away. This wasn't an area of town that boasted much foot traffic, and few wanted to be out and about in the weather besides. 

Once the cab stopped, Sherlock found himself in front of a self storage building and opposite a high backed stone wall. Of which on the other side he knew lay several warehouses. 

It was completely deserted. 

His phone chimed again, just as the wind picked up, howling with an eerily high pitch. 

_Ignore the storage. Once the cab leaves, climb the wall. I'll be waiting for you on the other side._

Sherlock's gaze immediately went up, looking for a spotter in a window or on a rooftop. No shadows were in sight to give away the presence of backup, even though Moriarty undoubtedly would have some. Private security cameras, rather than CCTV were hooked onto the storage building. Hacked, most likely, so he could watch for Sherlock's arrival.

The detective waited until the cab pulled out of sight and no one else was in view on the street. A running start got him partway up the wall, and scaling the rest was a piece of cake.

The other side was just as deserted, but lined with expansive, unmarked buildings and an access road between them. No sign of Moriarty in sight. When no further instructions came via text, it was implied he had to be in one of these buildings. Two of them looked to be storage facilities for public transportation vehicles. Another two looked to be general machinery storage. While Sherlock was deciding the temperature in the air was dropping. The wind and the rain picked up and whipped his hair into his eyes. Droplets of water began to sting as they fell.

From a short distance away came a loud crack, making Sherlock jump, but it was nothing like the sound of a gun. The door to the machinery storage building swung slowly open on its hinge.

Sherlock's hand went into his pocket. He'd acquired a gun in the interim time since John had moved out. He wasn't the crack shot that the doctor was, but it had seemed prudent to invest in some amount of lethal protection if he was no longer going to be working with an assistant that doubled as a bodyguard.

This had to be a trap. Sherlock knew it, and he couldn't resist the draw, but he wasn't going to be a complete fool.

The detective's heartbeat sped up and there, _there_ was the rush he'd missed. He'd forsaken drugs after being strongarmed into it by his brother and Lestrade, and the thrill of the Game had served as their replacement. Except there hadn't been a suitable game for a while now. Nothing that sharpened the world like this and made time flow in odd little swirls. It made life worth living by virtue of chasing the pain and ennui away.

Sherlock's feet carried him closer. He wiped the rain out of his eyes and cautiously passed through the open doorway.

One glance down told him the bolt had been forced, but there was no sign of anyone in sight. Contrary to what he'd expected of the environment, it was even colder in there than it was outside. For one unnerving moment he remembered the chill of his mind palace. 

Sherlock's eyes were adjusting to the dark. What little light had been cast in from the door illuminated only several rows of machinery and shelving. 

There came a clang from above and that was his only warning. Something big and hard and very alive slammed into him, taking him down to the ground. 

His breath was knocked out of him. Time stood still. 

He calculated the weight and estimated height of the person who'd jumped onto him - too big, too heavy for it to be Moriarty. A henchman, then. Sherlock sucked in a ragged breath and tried to jerk his elbow back, aiming for tender spots on the torso of the man behind him, but a large hand caught his limb before the blow could connect.

His gun fell. A heavy boot kicked it and sent it clattering somewhere on the other side of the building.

Sherlock was forced down by the weight of the other man alone and a deep voice growled in his ear. "You're going to pay, _Sherlock Holmes_. I am going to _hunt you down_ and I'm going to _love it_." And just when Sherlock thought he might be able to get his elbow under the man's sternum, he was released and kicked back down to the floor. 

Everything was pitch black, but he'd felt something when they'd connected, something strapped to the man's head. His pursuer could see and he could not. 

"Better run," the voice sounded again. 

Adrenaline spurred Sherlock into action. He scrambled blindly, trying to put some distance between himself and the other man. His gun was a lost cause; he'd have to find another weapon or risk circling back.

Moriarty wasn't here. Moriarty wouldn't have permitted a henchman to hunt and kill him when he could have that pleasure himself. Somehow, this was an agent he'd missed, one who'd been close enough on that fateful day to have overheard their conversation on the rooftop. A fourth sniper, perhaps. 

Sherlock didn't have time to reflect upon it. Survival was the concern of the moment. It'd be a pitiful end indeed if he bested Moriarty and his network and Magnussen only to have one overlooked henchman do him in on a revenge spree. 

His footsteps echoed and Sherlock used some of the sound to help him navigate, along with the drafts of cold air. He still couldn't see in the gloom and when he did run into something, his hands only met solid metal framework that he couldn't use: scaffolds, metal drums, large chains fixed to pulley systems higher up. He could climb, but it would be slow and noisy and simply attract the other man's attention. He'd be trapped on top of a structure with edges he couldn't see.

"What's wrong, Sherlock?" the harsh voice shouted from somewhere far away, echoing off the walls. "What's that famous brain of yours good for if you can't figure out how to get to me?" 

His pursuer was giving him a comfortable head start, just to lure Sherlock into the illusion of hope. He could have killed Sherlock on the spot, stuck a knife in his back or shot him the moment he entered the warehouse. Instead, he wanted a chase. That said something about the man. 

Personal, this had to be personal. 

None of the others that Sherlock had tracked down had been like this. Loyal, yes, but out of fear and a wish for prosperous times to continue. A note in this man's voice spoke of old hurt; some sort of attachment.

Perhaps Moriarty hadn't been quite as alone in the world as Sherlock had thought. Moriarty hadn't valued it enough to stay alive, though. 

Sherlock kept low and moved as quietly as he could, searching for bits of light. Warehouses were never boxes with only one way in or out. There had to be other exits he could break through to escape. While he moved past a pile of crates, Sherlock's hand touched something: a crowbar. He snatched it up. A short piece of metal was a poor defense, but better than none.

As soon as he did, a smattering of lights came on high in the rafters. They dispelled the complete darkness, but now everything was awash in shadow. The building itself was expansive, and for the most part open, but there were stacks of machinery everywhere. It looked to be mostly car parts and other vehicles, construction and transportation equipment. A few low walls and scaffoldings sectioned the interior space off, from what Sherlock could see of it, and his pursuer was nowhere in sight. 

And then the crack of a gunshot whizzed by him. It sent Sherlock to the ground from the sound alone. His pursuer hadn't missed by accident. 

" _Come on_ Sherlock!" The voice echoed. The way he kept using Sherlock's name, definitely personal. "Tell me, what was it like up there? In those final moments. Did you see that coming, did you guess he'd kill himself? Just like you 'had it all planned out'? I think that’s bullshit." 

So he'd picked up on that point in Sherlock's story, but probably not from the news. Sherlock had explained it to Anderson. Anderson had informed his little fanclub. They had posted his interview to the web, but still, this man had been watching him for some time. 

The man laughed, turning from furious into nonchalant nearly as fast as Jim once had. "Jeez it's cold in here, don't you think? Sure you don’t want to come out?" 

"No, I didn't see that coming," Sherlock shouted back. Although he should have. Pieces of Moriarty's demeanor should have cued him in, things that he'd said. Even his choice of music, at times. His disdain of staying alive hadn't been a dig at Sherlock and his plans for him; ennui had begun eating Moriarty, in the same way it had started to drive Sherlock mad years ago. Sherlock had been his last toy, the companion he'd wanted to drag with him into the afterlife, if there was such a thing.

Sherlock moved cautiously, ducking quickly from cover to cover, scanning the room both for his adversary and possible routes of escape. There weren't any good options. Windows and ventilation panels were too high up for him to reach, much less open quickly before he'd get shot. One dock door was on the other side of the warehouse but, from what Sherlock could see, well bolted.

He could try to move back the way he came. Right now, that was the only other exit Sherlock could see. Presumably, the gunman was somewhere between himself and that door. But there it was. Between a stack of metal shelves and boxes, he could see it still open to the rain outside. 

The only escape. 

Just as his eyes fixed on it, the temperature dropped further. Sherlock's breath became fog. And slowly, so slowly at first he thought it was a trick of the eye, the door creaked. And then slammed. 

It sent a bang through the building nearly as loud as his pursuer's shot had been. 

From his position below, Sherlock saw the gunman rise like a spring from his hiding place atop a scaffolding, handgun raised and aimed at the door. Where no one was. 

Then the lights went out.

Sherlock moved for the doorway. It was his best chance with the gunman distracted by this turn of events. He ducked and weaved through the piles of machinery, doing his best not to trip. Chill lanced right through to his bones, and he could feel his own misted breath hitting his face as he ran. 

For once, Sherlock had no idea what was going on. Survival was all that mattered. If he made it out of this, he could try to puzzle out what had occurred later.

The lights flickered, all of them this time, and there were at least a dozen throughout the warehouse. It turned into a strobe effect that set Sherlock's trajectory off as he ran, sending the world into darkness in one moment and illuminating it in the next. Something crashed behind him and the sound of heavy footfalls followed it. The gunman had fallen from his ledge, but he was in pursuit. A bullet flew over Sherlock's shoulder and above them one of the lights burst. A howling wind circled Sherlock's legs and swept up his body like a living thing before it dissipated. 

Behind him, Sherlock heard the gunman shout. Another bullet fired, but it came nowhere close to Sherlock's direction. 

He couldn't afford to look back to see what had spooked his assailant. Only a few more meters and he would reach the door.

The detective slammed into the metal panel and clawed at the handle. Despite his best efforts, it refused to budge. He swept his hands over the surface, feeling and looking for a lock or latch while the lights kept up their mad flickering. He found nothing. The door should have opened, but it was as solid as if it had been welded shut. Even prying at the seam with the crowbar didn't make it budge a centimeter.

Crowbar in hand, Sherlock turned and braced himself for a dash back across the warehouse.

The lights flashed and something flew at him. It nearly took off his head. And then another something came, hard and fast and landing behind him with the clang of metal. A pair of wrenches. He couldn't see where they were coming from with the lights going haywire, and it made ducking impossibly difficult, but he could tell from the groan on the other side of the makeshift hall that they were not propelled by the gunman. 

There was a dull thud of metal hitting flesh and the man let out a cry. Again his gun fired. When Sherlock caught a glimpse, all he could see was the man lying on the ground, rolling desperately away from something unseen, dark blond hair matted with blood as he sprawled over, the night vision goggles lying uselessly beside him on the concrete floor. 

Sherlock felt another wave of fear roll over him. It was one thing to be in mortal danger, and he'd experienced that many times before, but this... was a complete loss of control. His mind couldn't make sense of this. Something unseen had taken out a military-trained gunman, and something unseen had thrown heavy pieces of metal at his head. There were no wires, no magnets. They hadn't fallen off a scaffold.

The lights were blinding, and Sherlock didn't move quickly enough. Another wrench arched toward him and collided with his shoulder, and he went down.

The howling wind picked up again, and nothing made sense. They were inside. The door was locked shut. But then, the more Sherlock listened, the more he realized that it wasn't the wind howling. There was a distinct sound in the fury of it, whipping at his coat and hair and stinging at his injured shoulder, and it was distinctly a human voice. 

Across the concrete floor, the gunman was back on his feet, but just barely. He stared at Sherlock with horror written into his features. He could hear it, too. 

When Sherlock concentrated through the haze of fear and confusion, he could even vaguely recognize the voice. Gone were the soft, lilting qualities that had been used to tease and subtly threaten. This was all spitfire rage, a harshness he'd heard only a few times before when its owner’s temper flared beyond tight, methodical control.

From the way he paled, the blond man on the other side of the room recognized it as well. He and Sherlock stared at each other, wide-eyed and uncomprehending. 

The flashing lights began to burst, one after another, with the voice rising higher and higher in an unintelligible, earsplitting cry. The man across from Sherlock visibly ducked and flinched, throwing his arms over his head to block out the sound, before the world went black and the maelstrom abruptly died. 

With ears ringing Sherlock nearly missed it, but a clatter came from across the hall, punctuated by heavy footfalls as the gunman retreated. Another crash told Sherlock he was either running into things as he went or the terror was starting up again. Either way, his pursuer was on the run. 

Sherlock shakily rose to his feet, listening to the footfalls grow faint. 

His entire world felt inverted. He knew, logically, that anyone else in his position would describe he’d just witnessed as supernatural activity. He also knew that to be impossible. Ghosts didn't exist, or he would have known about them. Someone would have been able to gather scientific proof.

Sherlock's mental denials repeated themselves in a silent mantra while he backed slowly towards the door that had been sealed. His enemy had gone in the opposite direction, spooked, but perhaps not for long. He'd test the door to see if the lock still held one last time before he'd risk following the gunman.

This time it swung open easily. 

The rain still poured outside, coming more heavily than when he'd entered. The breeze picked up again in a sudden rush, making him jump. Something cracked and snapped behind him, and then clanged to the ground. When he turned to look, one of the wire shelves had fallen. The wind sluggishly tapered off, clinging to his coat as though trying to hold onto its fury. The voice was gone, if in fact he had heard it at all. 

Shock was slowing him down, but Sherlock realized that he was in the clear for the moment. The door was open, the gunman nowhere in sight. He shelved his curiosity about the man and he ran as quickly as he could manage with the water-slick pavement and his own shaky legs.

Time dragged as he went. Sherlock felt unusually tired when he managed to get to a street busy enough to flag a cab down. The driver looked at his soaked form and pale face with no small amount of alarm, but responded well enough to a generous amount of quid and a croaked address. The cab lurched into motion and Sherlock slid down to rest against the worn seat.

He knew he should probably tell someone, but what was he going to say? Admit that he went off on the off-chance, bordering on hope, that Moriarty was alive and have to explain that impulse? Describe the gunman and have to put up with limitations and posted guards watching his every move? Confess what he'd seen and heard that had ended the encounter, and have his apartment searched again? He'd only _just_ gotten replacement stocks now that his brother, John, and Lestrade had all relaxed and stopped scrutinizing his behavior. He wasn't going to go through the embarrassment and violation of a search again, or questions about why he'd obtained an emergency cache.

The cab stopped at the kerb just outside 221 Baker Street. Sherlock didn't bother thanking the driver. He slowly made his way up the stairs and into his flat, shedding wet garments as he went once he was behind closed doors. If the gunman hadn't tried assassinating him in his flat before, he wouldn't try now. 

Sherlock tumbled into bed, shivering and dragged down by a bone-deep weariness. His breathing evened out as he fell into black unconsciousness.

After a period of time, his mind resurfaced to a set of familiar hallways. 

He could access this space in his waking hours, but walking through his mind palace in a dream-state lent it an extra sense of realism. There were no other sights and sounds to be blocked out in order to anchor himself here. He simply _was_.

Sherlock wandered, but found his feet pulled inexorably in one particular direction, down and down and down, until he found himself outside one of the doors he hesitated to open. He'd come here often enough anyways, when he'd been undercover in the field, trying to ponder how his enemy had thought, but there were no simple questions tonight. 

Sherlock opened the bolted steel door and entered a quiet room that was all soft, white padding. A form on the other side stirred, the thick chain that connected his collar to the wall clanking when he lifted his head.

Jim Moriarty. 

At least, the Jim Moriarty that Sherlock's subconscious could piece together like clay in order to present something similar to the whole. 

Oily black eyes blinked up at Sherlock in a manner more reptilian than human. The creature cocked his head. They watched each other, watching back, and Jim remained nestled on the floor where he'd made his own little well worn spot. 

"Come to see me again, have you?" his voice was a little more human today, but Moriarty sounded every bit as petulant as his words would have Sherlock believe. "I wonder _why_? Losing your own marbles, maybe?"

Sherlock settled into a seat against the wall - a little bit closer, but not enough that the madman could reach him. He knew the full extension of that chain well, and Moriarty's hands were bound. Nothing in his mind could harm him unless he permitted it. "I had a visit, today. From one of your old friends, I think. Must have been a dear one. I wouldn't have thought you'd have that in you, but this one was different. Fond of you, as well as afraid."

Moriarty was caught somewhere between laughter and a pitying expression. "You have such _little_ faith in me. Always have." Jim tsked and shook his head. "Why couldn't you have just paid more attention? You might have noticed. You thought you'd brought down my whole network, didn't you?" Jim tilted his head, and kept tilting, and tilting, until he fell over and rolled onto his back. Still he stared up at Sherlock. "How little you really saw me... such a _shaaaame_." 

"I might have had the chance to see more if you hadn't foolishly pulled that trigger." _That_ was the shame, really. Such a gorgeous, if twisted, mind gone to waste. Granted, Sherlock had to admit that others would comment the same about some of his habits, but none of those had done permanent, much less terminal, damage. "And why was that? Your strange notion of a lovers' murder-suicide? A desperate bid for company, should there be an afterlife, when you'd already decided you couldn't stomach living with the boredom anymore?"

Sherlock found himself unconsciously leaning closer. Something about Moriarty's eyes drew him in. They didn't quite seem real, like a doll's eyes. Or a shark's, set in a delicate, innocent face.

Jim was leaning in as well, imperceptibly until Sherlock noticed that he couldn't have been covering that much distance alone. The chain at Moriarty's neck snicked to a halt and Jim was left hanging in midair. A little smile pulled up the corners of his lips. "Why?" he whispered, an eyebrow raise high, "do you _miss me?_ " 

Teeth snapped, nearly catching Sherlock's nose. 

"It's no wonder you can't understand me, Sherlock," Jim crowed softly. "I am, after all, only a part of your imagination."

Sherlock shook his head. He wasn't going to answer the figment's question. He barely understood the answer himself, even when he could admit it. "That's true. You're not even close to a full reconstruction," he sighed. "You're the product of a handful of encounters, deductions, and extrapolated guesswork. And you were so erratic at times that I'm certain I've guessed some things wrong."

Sherlock got back to his feet, looking down at the form straining right in front of him. Rigid at the end of the chain, clenched teeth and intense eyes. Sherlock remembered that fire well enough, at least. "I guess I'm wasting my time."

"That's all you ever do, Sherlock," Jim hissed back as Sherlock stepped away. "Waste time." 

The sounds of the chain clanking came as Jim rolled onto his back again, but Sherlock couldn't see. The door, heavy iron on the outside, creaked back into place and left him in silence. 

Near silence. 

There were times when the mind palace was made up of nothing, a certain kind of limbo, and other times when Sherlock would flip through place to place or object to object, each with its significant recollection, like pages in a catalogue. 

But he could hear something rustling on the edges of his senses, something just out of his reach when he grasped for the memory of whatever was scratching at the back of his mind. 

Slowly, mercurial pools of inky black spread under his feet, loosening the concrete of the floor and forming cracks in the very walls around him. It spread like the virus he had left to Lestrade earlier, seeping from one point to the next, converging around him until Sherlock could see that it wasn't just black any longer. 

Pinpricks filled the void until he could recognize them as…stars.

Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise, but not alarm. Strange things had happened before when he'd come here while asleep instead of awake. Instead of retrieving data like a computer search, it became more akin to meditation or lucid dreaming. Just because he was in control didn't mean his subconscious couldn't shift the dream world.

He took a hesitant step and found that he could walk through the star-flecked darkness just fine. More disconcerting was the sound. It was vaguely like rats, quietly scurrying about and gnawing at something, chewing holes in the woodwork of his mind. Sherlock cocked his head and listened, then followed where he thought it was coming from.

The ground below him gave way to nothingness, and gradually Sherlock wasn't just walking through the void any longer, he was swimming through it. It became thick and yet intangible. His feet didn't touch the ground and yet he moved forward with every loping step. 

He walked through a world of stars, hopping between galaxies in such a way that would have taken lightyears in reality. 

It was all very beautiful, even serene, in spite of the undercurrent of scratching, until Sherlock realized with some surprise that the constellations were _accurate_. As were the galaxies. The Milky Way floated to his far left side, complete with star clusters, comets, and planets that Sherlock could not remember studying before. And through it all, the rustling, scritch-scratching sounds softened. They smoothed into one long, sighing note, as though the universe were coming awake for the first time. 

Sherlock paused to examine the patterns; they were more accurate than they should have been. He supposed his mind could have made guesses about the structure of the universe and filled in the gaps, but normally lack of knowledge got translated into empty spaces. Astronomy had been one of a few disciplines he had never seen the point of retaining data. It was all very pretty and made for a lot of vapid quotes bordering on religiosity that were much admired by the general public, but not very applicable in his line of work. With only so much storage capacity, astronomical knowledge was regularly trimmed back.

"See, John," he muttered to himself. "I bloody well remember the earth goes around the sun."

The sound turned suddenly into a shrieking hiss. It wrapped violently around Sherlock as though it were a physical thing, sending him to his knees. It crescendoed rapidly, yet its presence was all too eerily familiar. Just like wind in the warehouse, it sought to torture Sherlock, to drive him where it willed. And it willed him to throw his hands over his ears and tremble at the thought that his eardrums might burst even inside his own mind. 

And then it faded in a heartbeat, leaving a very human, gasping voice crying out the note's end. 

And again, Sherlock recognized it. Just behind him. What once had been a cruel, lilting, endlessly nuanced voice had sounded like a thousand nails streaking down an endless blackboard. Until Sherlock turned and found nothing there. 

Memories from earlier. Sherlock reasoned that that's what it had to be. He'd been so spooked by the seemingly unnatural occurrences that day that his mind had fixated on what he'd seen and heard. He rubbed at his ears, twisting and turning around. Nothing but void greeted him.

"It's all coming back to you, isn't it?" Sherlock mused. "If you had one loyal gunman, there might be others. You spread so deep I'll never pull all the roots out." And, perhaps, he didn't want to. What would it be like, without any challenges left? No more hidden mementos?

The air rustled around him, and Jim's voice, as if from a cavernous distance, came with it. " _You were supposed to die with me, Sherlock._ " Sherlock was turning his head, straining to hear when suddenly it was right in his ear. " _YOU OWE ME. Sherlock. You owe me a fall_." 

And then the strings that held him up were gone. Sherlock's stomach lurched into his chest as he dropped, careening through galaxies while the silence that came after that voice rang in his ears. 

The darkness was suddenly gone, a blindingly blue sky replaced it. Sherlock was outside, but he was still falling, wind whipping at him as he fell. 

The stone pavement of St. Bartholomew's Hospital sped at him. 

Sherlock's limbs flailed, trying to find purchase where there was none. Panic filled his mind until his arms instinctively shot forward, trying to keep the ground away from himself. He jerked to a halt a few feet above the ground, then slowly descended the rest of the way.

Sherlock knelt and tried to catch his breath. His heart was racing. Interesting twists and turns had happened in his dreams before, but never _here_. Never in his mind palace. 

"...Jim Moriarty. Why aren't you in your room?" Constructed personas weren't supposed to be uncontrollable. If not his own overactive mind, he had to be hearing his construct, and yet he couldn't see him. For all Sherlock knew, he was still safely chained and locked away in his cell. "I don't owe you anything."

"You owe me _everything_ , Sherlock." The voice was a whispered, sibilant hiss. This time, when Sherlock's head whipped around, its owner was present. 

A small figure stood in the blackened hall of Bart's entryway, staring with an expression colder than Sherlock had ever seen directed at him before. The dead man’s eyes were every bit as dark as Sherlock remembered. He had his hands stuffed in his pockets and back slouched, and yet tension poured off him like a tide. Every bone in Moriarty's body was rigid, and Sherlock could see it. He was burning with cold hatred. 

Moriarty had never looked at him that way before. 

The dark figure stepped forward, but the shadows came with him, obscuring half his face even in the brightest light of London day. He planted one foot in front of the other like every one of them took effort until he stood in front of Sherlock. When Moriarty tilted his head, looking down at where Sherlock knelt, blood oozed out the back of his broken skull. 

Sherlock's gaze flickered over the shorter man's face, taking in the bodily trauma. More embellishment. He'd tried to keep his mental construction of Moriarty neat and clean, more akin to when they'd had a social visit over tea, but he'd had very little to build with. The criminal's madness and erratic behavior had stuck in the forefront of Sherlock’s mind and gradually corrupted the image until he'd been left with the vicious little thing he kept in the padded room. Chained for safety. His own, and the construct's.

"I don't understand why you think I'm beholden to you. Why you ever did." Sherlock searched Moriarty's face, trying to find some hint of what his own subconscious was trying to tell him. "You weren't entitled to me merely by the fact I existed, or because you wanted something from me. What was the point of dying like that, after all?"

Moriarty's eyes shuttered in in cold fury. "You still don't understand?" he hissed and took a breath, sucking the nonexistent air between his teeth and trying to regain control of his composure. He looked about ready to explode. "After EVERYTHING!" he shouted and breathed, closing his eyes. "You weren't beholden to me then, but you are _now_ ," Jim hissed, "You _stupid--_ ," he kept cutting himself off, so furious he could barely finish a sentence. "You played the game with me, you _chose_ to play that game, Sherlock, and then you _chickened out!_ " He stomped closer, getting right up in Sherlock's face all at once. "And now I come to find that all along you understood _nothing_. _I_ thought we were the same! But you weren't, were you, you pathetic--. That was as good as it was ever going to get, you know. Meeting you, I thought 'well, this is it'. And how you really had me going. You must have _loved_ it, me believing in you, and all along you were just as mundane as the rest of them."

" _Mundane_ , is it? _Stupid_?" Constructed memory or not, those words sparked a smoldering anger in Sherlock. How many times had Mycroft looked down at him and implied, or outright told him, the same things? That he was the stupid child, the disappointment, the one who couldn't keep up with his brother. "I hardly think those are the correct adjectives to use, considering I outsmarted _you_. I had no desire to die just because the whim took you. Only a fool lets someone else set all the rules and follows along, reacting after the fact instead of playing proactively. I had no desire for your death, either. If we're going to speak of choices, _you_ were the one who chose nihilism. And what an utter waste that was."

" _Indeed, it turned out to be_." Moriarty bared his teeth like he wanted to snap. He was shaking he was so furious. If he had been any other man, he would have taken a swing at Sherlock. And yet he still somehow kept himself in check. "And what exactly have you gone on living for?" Jim's voice dropped to a whisper. "Does the boredom still get to you? You 'died' for that doctor of yours and you went away and you learned how to live day by day one little job after another while the world ate at your soul and you still survived, and what did you come home to find? That all the people you said you cared about moved on, and even when you came back to them, they didn't come back to you. Not really." Finally, some of the anger seeped out of Moriarty's slim shoulders. His voice softened with an edge of tiredness. "Tell me, Sherlock. If you were to find the one thing you've been searching for, wouldn't you end it, too? That's it. And then you can stop. Let all the disappointment in this world fall away. You could leave it all behind." Moriarty frowned, more to himself than to Sherlock. "But how you failed me. _You didn't seeeee,_ " he drew out the last syllable in desperation. "Do you even realize how you see me?" 

The world of St. Bart's fell away, sucking them down ever deeper, pulling in the pit of Sherlock's stomach, until they reached the depths of his mind palace, just outside the door to the padded room. 

"You're right, in that they didn't come back," Sherlock uttered in the quiet hall. And what a bitter truth that was. Sherlock was happy to see John happy, honestly. Happy to have him alive and relatively close, but there was a barrier between them now, and that would only grow. Especially once there was a child to care for. "But I don't see the point in extinguishing oneself just when you finally obtain what you want. You never enjoy it, that way. That hardly seems a reward for all that time spent unfulfilled."

Sherlock gestured at the steel door. "That's why I've put you here. You don't make sense. I'm missing too many pieces to be able to construct what you were, and I can't have you damaging the other rooms and files."

Jim started laughing. It came out as a little chuckle at first, until it began bubbling up from his chest in dark, cynical bursts. He seemed to hate it as much as he found it funny. 

Something in the door crunched. The metal of the latch creaked and unlocked itself before it swung open in a smooth arc. 

There, inside, was another Jim Moriarty. He sat exactly the way Sherlock left him - chained to the wall and crouched on the floor in the little indentation he'd made for himself in the padding. His head snapped up and cocked at them, curious. Delirious. 

" _That's_ how you see me?" The Moriarty at Sherlock's side hissed and strode through. 

Sherlock froze. His eyes darted between the two of them in confusion that was slowly turning into fear. There shouldn't have been two Moriartys. Thought constructs took some time and effort to create, and Sherlock had only made _one_ Moriarty. He'd assumed that his construct had escaped the locked room and come to find him, perhaps due to the fact that his control had been so unbalanced that day. Nothing else seemed like a possibility. Inside his own mind, the only options were that he had slipped entirely into dreamstate, or that his distraction had permitted his construct to roam free.

Something was terribly wrong.

The one he'd been speaking to turned tack to him with a smile. It was as carefree as it was false, tossed at Sherlock for show while he grabbed the other roughly by the hair with one hand. The grin vanished as he yanked, pulling a cry of either pain or surprise from the Moriarty on the ground, who looked up at his counterpart with awe, like he was as surprised as Sherlock to encounter another. He didn’t even mind that his head was being wrenched at such an angle. 

Out of thin air a knife appeared in the standing Moriarty's hand and he grinned again, eyes locked on Sherlock as he drew it down with one swift motion, ripping through the flesh of the other's throat. Spurts of arterial blood darkened the front of his pristine suit, while the one kneeling on the floor only became filthier with it than he was before. His face froze in surprise, gurgling unintelligibly before the anomalous Moriarty threw him to the ground. 

When the knife wielding Moriarty turned, he stared back at Sherlock with aggressive triumph as the tiny spark of intelligence that had remained among the madness left his counterpart's eyes. 

The corpse in the straightjacket sank to the floor. It stared dully for another moment or two before turning to shadow began to overtake its body. It grew dimmer, insubstantial, until it finally vanished completely. 

Sherlock, pale and in shock, slowly lifted his gaze from where the body had been to the new Moriarty standing in front of him. Moriarty with a knife, spattered with his counterpart’s blood. 

Cold fear filled Sherlock, reminiscent of earlier that day. This wasn't supposed to be possible. Nothing should happen in his mind palace without his consent and control, and he hadn't made a second Moriarty. Impossible as it seemed, this wasn't his construct, which meant Sherlock no longer knew the rules and could no longer take his own safety and comfort for granted. He started backing out of the padded room, away from the madman and his dripping knife.

For the first time this Moriarty's eyes glinted with something other than fury and despair. Genuine amusement lit up his features as he began to laugh. At Sherlock. 

"Oh. _Oh, honey._ Who's going mad now?" Moriarty's face split into a grin as he ate up Sherlock's panic. He took a step closer, darting forward with one swift motion and shouted, eyes wild, "BOO!"

Sherlock turned and fled, instinct overriding the rational part of him that told him that turning his back on a knife was a bad idea. He fled up the stairs and down the hallways, hearing Moriarty's laughter echo behind him. 

Laughter, and footsteps.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning in this chapter for a (sort of) underage kiss. If you would rather avoid it, you can stop reading when Sherlock says: _"...what do you want?"_ , skip several paragraphs, and pick up again at: _Jim's grin widened, making his eyes crinkle and his face split._

Sherlock darted into a room at random and shut the door as quietly as he could, hoping that he'd been far enough ahead to be able to lose the spectre. Sunlight streamed in through the windows and lit up a rather plain, wood-paneled bedroom. Sherlock's room, back when he was a boy and his parents would take him and Mycroft to a rented cottage by the seaside for the summer holidays. He could even see the glint of the water through those windows, sparkling under a rare clear patch of sky.

The whole place smelled the beach sea breeze, of sand and sea and the familiar, comforting things Sherlock remembered. 

He was able to rest there for several long moments and collect his bearings. But then the atmosphere around him began to change. 

As surely as he'd felt the presence of _something_ stalking him in his mind palace before, Sherlock felt it now. It permeated the air and turned its salty tang sweet, but no more than that. Sherlock could recognize the presence now. In the midst of Moriarty's fury, he'd felt it. And it seemed as though Jim had paused, unseen, followed him here and yet stopped to take in the location. If Sherlock pressed against the door, Moriarty would be just on the other side of it. 

Off in the distance bright laughter chimed through an open window. A child's voice, playing on the beach. 

Sherlock felt his perception shift, as it sometimes did when he visited much older memories. The window was higher than the last time he'd looked. He glanced out at the scenery outside, then nervously back at the door. The sense of threat, of presence, was palpable. Sherlock went to the bed and quietly tried to pull the sheets off. If Moriarty had figured out he'd ducked in through this door, he didn't want to get trapped in this room.

He heard his pursuer’s voice before he saw any other sign of him. It rang out like a great yawning thing through the door. " _Sherrrrr_ -lock..." The handle creaked and bent, turning centimeter by centimeter until it swung open with Jim's hand attached to the other side. Like a prowling lizard his dark head peered in until he locked on Sherlock in the corner. 

Moriarty's eyes widened. 

Sherlock's appearance had changed significantly to fit with his new surroundings. He stood on the other side of his bed, mop of dark curls as unruly as ever, but barely even half his usual height. The nervous, defiantly clear eyes of a child stared back at Jim and the dead criminal's back straightened with surprise. And with interest. 

Sherlock had barely gotten the first sheet off the bed. There hadn't been time to knot things together and try to climb out the window. His hands worked quickly, tying one end of a sheet to the bedside table while his nervous gaze stayed fixed on Moriarty, but he knew he was cornered. The room was too small to duck around the man and be sure to get away, and he couldn't climb out the window unassisted. Not without falling and breaking a limb, although that might be preferable to facing a knife. Sherlock didn't know what damage in here would do, and he wasn't keen on finding out. He bit the inside of his cheek and wished he'd wake up.

Moriarty looked like he was recovering quickly from his surprise. He blinked several times and his eyes widened for comic effect before proclaiming, "Now this is brilliant. Apparently I've gone to heaven." 

He turned to lock the door, even though there had been no lock there only a second ago, and clapped his hands together before spreading them wide and advancing. His smile only grew with every inch Sherlock unconsciously shrank back. The knife was gone, but Jim himself looked just as sharp. "I saw you back then, like this,” he gestured to emphasize Sherlock’s current state, “but you never knew it, did you? When you were investigating, well 'investigating'," Moriarty paused to make air quotes, "the death of Carl Powers. You had no idea your murderer _noticed_ you."

"Not then, no... though you gave me some idea later on." Sherlock's voice wasn't his own - too high, too young, transported back in time to fit this particular memory, the seaside trip when he had been eleven. He decided to risk the danger of a bad knot and scrambled backwards through the window, hands white-knuckled where they clutched the sheet serving as a rope. "This shouldn't be happening. This isn't real. I have to wake up."

"No you don't!" Jim dashed forward, diving for Sherlock just as he began to lower himself. There was no way Sherlock could have made it without dropping. He was too slow. Jim's arms grabbed him around the middle and hoisted him back inside, legs kicking, and the both of them tumbled down to the floor. 

They grappled, but Jim was bigger now and he already had his arms around Sherlock, enough to hold him down. Jim had begun to laugh again. It was high and a little hysterical, until it wasn't. Until he had Sherlock well and pinned and they went still. 

Moriarty felt solid. _Too_ solid, in a way different than any of the constructs Sherlock had ever made. The man's body was warm, rather than neutral, and Sherlock could feel warm breath on his neck while Moriarty laughed. His spine stiffened in fear and his skin broke out into gooseflesh. 

Sherlock didn't have any idea what to do. He'd never expected to really see his rival again, much less get cornered. Much less get _touched_. Sherlock had lived life thus far with most everyone at a distance, rarely laying a hand on one another. Even John hadn't been much of an exception to that rule, and yet here he was, Moriarty draped over him and holding him down. 

"Let me go!"

Moriarty reacted by squeezing tighter, eyes squinting with delight so close and so dark even with the sunlight shining in. "I blew my brains out for you, honey, the least you could do is give me a little hug and make it all better," he cooed. Jim had been all fury and hatred in the other room and suddenly that had changed. It had something to do with this setting, with Sherlock's change, and Sherlock had no idea if Moriarty was even aware of it. "Promise you won't run away," Jim whispered. His hand came up to pet at Sherlock's hair, for no other reason it seemed than to touch it. He looked slightly enthralled. 

Sherlock quivered slightly under Jim's hands. His own pupils were huge, dilated from a rush of adrenaline, and fixed on Jim's face. The more he stared, the more Sherlock realized that the unusual draw his old construct had had still applied. Moriarty was almost hypnotic, like watching a poisonous snake swaying within striking distance. 

"...I don't understand how you're here," Sherlock whispered, voice far too fragile. 

The dark eyes only centimeters in front of him closed in a moment of satisfaction that had nothing to do with what he said next. "You will." When Jim's eyes opened a smile curved his mouth. "You're a clever boy." 

They were curled near the foot of Sherlock's bed, lying uncomfortably against the hardwood floor. The wound in the back of Jim's head continued to bleed, forming a little pool of droplets beneath him and smearing whenever they struggled. 

But they weren't struggling now. Impossibly, this was a moment of standoff. 

Jim swallowed, glancing down to Sherlock's lips, half distracted and half in thought before his eyes darted back up. "Allow me just one thing before you go off and wake up."

Sherlock watched the expressions flow across Jim's face with fascination. Most of their interactions in life had been dominated by anger, or Jim manipulating him towards particular ends. Studded throughout the encounters had been a flirtatious thread that had put Sherlock on edge. John had had a bit of that as well, but always firmly denied by the doctor. Always _safe_. Moriarty, by contrast, was the sort of person who reached out and took what he wanted. Sherlock had never had guarantees that the barrier he'd constructed around himself would be respected.

Wary grey eyes searched Jim's face. "...what do you want?"

A playful smile lit up Jim's eyes. The anger may have melted away from him, but the cunning hadn't. His brows raised by a fraction and he leaned closer, towards Sherlock’s ear like he was about to tell a secret. His eyelids lowered, black depths barely peeking out. His head tilted. 

"A kiss." 

Sherlock considered this for a moment. He wasn't comfortable with the idea. He knew what was involved, having experienced a few with Janine and witnessed others perform it in many variations, but kisses always seemed so... messy. And pointless. Neither was there anything holding Moriarty to his word; giving him this might just make him want more. Sherlock didn't have much leverage at the moment to stop him and force him to honor the agreement.

Then again, Moriarty hadn't had to ask, either. He'd chosen to, or else this was part of another game - one designed to make Sherlock think he had control. 

The boy weighed his options and sighed. He doubted Moriarty would let him go without punishment if he refused, and capitulation might be enough to buy his freedom. Jim did have a tendency to keep his word. "...a-alright."

Jim's lips curled. Sherlock saw it just barely, the man so close it was almost difficult. Just like he could see only slivers of those two black holes Jim called eyes watching him between lowered lashes. 

In that moment, Moriarty was a predator…. But a sweet one. 

His touch was gentle as he bent forward, fingers dipping between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, soft exhale warm over Sherlock's lips, and then his mouth pressed to Sherlock's. 

Jim was slow about it. His lips were soft and inviting. It was like he had thought about this for a long, long time because his hands moved up Sherlock's back and tangled in his hair without hesitation. Jim took a deep breath and savoured the moment they were locked together. 

Sherlock was rigid for a long while, barely daring even to breathe. The sensation was much like he'd expected, and at the same time nothing that he could have predicted. Warmth and pressure were there, and he could feel the slide of Jim's mouth against his own and the arms circled underneath him, hands gripping the back of his head. Jim's eyes were open and close enough that Sherlock could see how they consisted of layers of dark brown, rather than soulless black. Eyes that were fixed on him.

A peculiar feeling spread through Sherlock. Tingling from his lips and the points of his scalp where Jim's fingers rested, trickling down his spine to form an electric pool. Sherlock's skin suddenly felt too warm. Jim felt heavier, or at least Sherlock became aware of his weight, of each point where the man's body touched his own. He shifted uncomfortably, and the friction from that made him pause.

Jim pulled back not more than a millimeter, just enough to grin. One of his hands moved down to the small of Sherlock's back and pressed them together. Suddenly there was more friction. 

"I'd violate you if you'd let me." Jim's eyes were alight again. 

He'd come into Sherlock's head with a whirlwind of rage and now he looked at Sherlock like it was Christmas. It was amazing how thoroughly Jim was distracted. _Changeable,_ he'd said once. But he himself was…enthralling, too. When Jim changed, he did his best to pull Sherlock along with him. 

It took a moment for Sherlock to realize what Jim meant. The idea of sex, much less sex like _this_ , with his dead enemy somehow invaded his head and made Sherlock pale. He vigorously shook his head. "No. No, I-... I can't let you do that."

Sherlock knew how sex worked from various textbooks, and enough to help with his deductions at crime scenes, but he'd never gone further. Something about the discomfort it raised kept him away. It had never been relevant before because no one suitable had presented themselves, anyway. His disgust for his fans was tangible, and the only others he'd considered breaking his chosen celibacy for were... otherwise unsuitable. They wouldn't have him, and so Sherlock hadn't bothered exploring those avenues. "You said just a kiss."

Jim's grin widened, making his eyes crinkle and his face split. He didn't move, his arms didn't loosen, he didn't look like he was ready to give in, but the world was fading around them. Whatever sounds Sherlock had heard outside the cabin were long gone. He could no longer smell the sea breeze. The walls were losing their solidity and fading into the distance. _Jim_ was fading. But all the while his eyes remained locked on Sherlock, gleeful with the way he'd gotten under Sherlock's skin, if not in the literal sense. 

Sherlock bit his own lip and twisted, physically and otherwise. His half-dream state snapped. He plunged into darkness and fell, only to jolt awake in his own bed.

He rolled over. The sheets were a clammy tangle around his legs and he felt damp all over, like he's just slept through a fever. A quick inspection of the clock told him that he hadn't been asleep for more than an hour or two.

Sherlock levered himself out of bed and put the coffee pot on before making his way to the shower. He needed to check in with Lestrade, and until he got a better grip on reality Sherlock had no intention of going back to sleep.

Exhaustion clung to him through every step. Once the adrenaline wore off he could feel it, his body wanting to bend down and down until he was sprawled on the floor. He felt like a drained battery. 

The shower was silent, all suspicious activity gone. The water came down and pattered against the tub around him in a soothing rhythm, almost as soothing as the heat of it. Hot as Jim's body had been against him. Smooth as Jim's lips. 

Sherlock's disturbance at that thought was the one thing that kept him awake. It was tempting to lay down in the tub and embrace the comfort, but for the imagery of Jim in Sherlock's head and the likelihood that he'd fall asleep and drown. He finished at a slow pace, unable to get his body to respond faster than a crawl. It reminded him of a few times when he'd been sick, either from conventional illnesses or chemical withdrawal.

When Sherlock finally redressed and made it back out to the kitchen, a full pot of coffee waited for him. He poured himself a generous mug and dug out his phone, fingers working at the buttons to text Lestrade. _Find anything?_

He had to wait several long minutes for the reply, which meant Lestrade had his hands full. When it finally chimed, at least part of Sherlock's sanity was validated. 

_You were right. Vaccines contaminated at Genocea Bioscience and immBio in Cambridge. No others, yet._ Both vaccine developers, both not far from the city. _Need you up here._

Sherlock groaned and passed a hand over his face. There was work to be done in order to dismantle whatever Moriarty's old ally had put together. Sherlock would have to pull himself together. Cab fare would be too significant to get all the way to Cambridge; he'd have to take another form of transportation. He took a sip of coffee and began typing. _Will be there as soon as I can. Arranging transport._

Sherlock knew he'd have to tell the DI he'd spotted the ringleader behind all of this, clearly, but he had no idea _what_ to tell Lestrade. He had no explanation for what had happened in the warehouse. Neither did he have any for the other strange occurrences earlier in the day. Combined with his odd dreams, the sweat-stained sheets, and his current fatigue, all Sherlock could think was that he'd caught some sort of illness. Not the ebola-like strain, or he'd have different symptoms, but an illness nonetheless.

_No time. Sending a car. We need to find this guy._

Looked like Sherlock would have to hurry. Lestrade had been getting pushier the more cases Sherlock offered to help with, even though this one was more than understandable. Their suspect had hostages and posed an immediate threat to public health. Still, without John Sherlock was less prone to going off on his own, and he more often told Greg all about whatever he was doing when he came back, simply because the DI was the only one he could talk to. 

Sherlock's expression soured. Whoever Lestrade was sending, they wouldn't be happy to see him, even if he was helping them fight a serious health threat.

Sherlock finished his mug of coffee and poured the rest of the pot into a travel case. The coffee thus far hadn't taken the edge off his fatigue like he'd thought it would, but Sherlock wasn't about to permit himself to doze off. Perhaps more would help.

A squad car showed up outside the flat in record time. Sherlock pulled on his coat and raced down the stairs. He'd have the rest of the trip to Cambridge to ponder what he was going to tell Lestrade and plan their next moves.

As late as it already was, Lestrade probably thought he was going to make Sherlock pull an all nighter, and that didn't bode well for anyone, as common an occurrence as it was. 

His driver was a rookie Sherlock recognized as Jerry or Frank or something equally dull. He was at least someone who still had an unhealthy amount of awe over Sherlock, both his stints in the media and his deductive abilities. 

It was a long drive with him rattling off pointless comments, anecdotes, and questions just to fill the silence.

Sherlock finally snapped at the man to get him to quiet. The atmosphere in the car didn't improve, but the silence eased Sherlock's aching head. He sipped at the coffee from his travel mug and reminded himself that he'd suffered much worse during his days of addiction.

He tried to concentrate, now that he no longer had to put up with his driver's inane prattling, and found his thoughts being derailed. Thinking about the gunman in the warehouse only reminded him of the voice he thought he'd heard on the wind, which summoned another memory: Jim holding him down, kissing him, telling Sherlock what else he'd like to do. 

Sherlock's skin prickled.

He heard it like a breath on the air of the wind and rain rushing past them, pattering on the windows of the car. _"I knew you missed me."_

It was so quiet, it could have been Frank who'd muttered something. One look at the man told Sherlock he hadn't. His eyes were fixed on the road and Sherlock could clearly see his profile. He hadn't moved in the slightest. 

Sherlock stilled. His hands turned white-knuckled around the travel canister. He took a deep breath and began to silently reason with himself. _This isn't real. I'm sick, and I'm hallucinating. It's a scientific impossibility for ghosts to exist, much less invade one's dreams and throw objects around a room. My brain simply fixated on the possibility that Moriarty might have faked his death and is drawing on old data to create fever hallucinations. None of this is real._

Whatever he'd heard did not come again. 

They arrived at immBio, its campus a single modern glass building that would have looked quite sterile and peaceful had it not been for the semicircle of police vans and HPA vehicles in its driveway, all with lights flashing. 

Jerry or whatever his name was stepped out, phoning Lestrade and ignoring the drizzle while Sherlock followed him to the building. They didn't get far before Greg's familiar shape came out the front doors, grey overcoat flapping in the wind. 

"It was just like you thought," the DI shouted across the lawn before they even met. Definitely in a hurry. He led them inside and out of the cold as he talked. "Nobody knows how it happened. None of the staff have gone missing. Contaminated product has been here for at least a couple days, and nobody knew what they had on their hands."

Sherlock nodded. Greg would be able to follow up on whatever other mundane threads needed to be tied up. He was here to spot if there were any other dangers they needed to find and any evidence to lead them to the culprit, not to walk Lestrade through containment plans. "I followed a side trail and saw the man who's likely behind this. Tall man, close-cropped blond hair, blue eyes, likely ex-military, several facial scars that suggest an animal attack. He's either an ex-associate of Moriarty's or, if the man is still alive, working under him."

Greg's steps faltered as they walked and he had to catch up with Sherlock. "You did _what_?" he stammered, "What happened? You lost him? How did you _find_ him? And _where_? Why the hell didn't you tell me sooner?" Lestrade looked like he was about to lose it and still they all just kept walking. Sherlock could see where the center of activity was swelling, around the front desk and the labs, officers no doubt checking security tapes, log in checkpoints, and shipments. 

"I got a text that contained information only Moriarty would know, or so I thought. I was redirected to a warehouse, but when I arrived, this other man was there. He seemed intent on blaming me for Moriarty's death and punishing me for it. It's possible he was being manipulated, but more likely that he's been the one mimicking his former associate this entire time in a sort of revenge campaign." Sherlock's gaze passed over the busy officers and resettled on Lestrade. "I escaped when the warehouse had an electrical problem, but I was close enough that I got a good look at him."

" _Shit_ Sherlock!" Greg threw up his hands. "If this guy's after you, you are _not_ safe at home. I'm sending security to watch your flat. You aren't going anywhere alone, you got that?" He fixed Sherlock with a hard stare, brown eyed like.... No, not like Jim. Jim's eyes were bigger, darker. It was just that for a second that 'do not contradict me' look was offputting. 

They were drawing attention, arguing in the middle of the front office. 

"You are _not_ putting me under house arrest, Lestrade." Particularly not now. Not when he was feeling under the weather and might do something suspicious. Not while he had stashes in the flat. Search warrant or no, some of the officers were bitter enough to poke around whenever he wasn't looking on the hope they might find something embarrassing or incriminating. "If he was trying to outright murder me, he would have already done something, not play convoluted games like dropping off infected tissue in a case that keeps me safe. My flat already has extra security. I will be _fine_."

That stopped Greg, remembering Mycroft. Having Sherlock confirm his brother was in fact using his considerable influence to watch Sherlock's flat was a relief. And possibly the explanation for why said killer hadn't attacked Sherlock there in the first place. "Alright," he groused, "But if I wake up tomorrow and hear anything's happened to you..." 

Lestrade had been a little more blatant about this kind of thing ever since Sherlock came back. 

Next to them, there was a small commotion at the desk monitors. Sherlock bent to look. "That's the courier? Different one than last time, new?" 

The receptionist peered at the camera. "I think so. I usually see just three guys." 

Sherlock pushed his way through the crowd to get a better view of the monitor. Closer to the screen, he had security rewind the footage back to the start.

A man roughly Sherlock’s height got out of the driver's seat of the delivery truck, digital signature pad in hand. His cap was pulled low over his face while he impatiently waited for someone to sign for the delivery, but the stance and movements were the same. Military, trying to be fluid and relaxed and more like a regular civilian, and not quite managing.

The courier made the mistake of lifting his head a touch too high, and that was enough. 

"That's him. That's who I ran into at the warehouse," Sherlock asserted. Which meant that it was very likely this man was working alone. Why else would the ringleader risk himself like this?

"Get that to digital," Lestrade ordered. "I want to find out who this guy is, where he lives, what he does, and how the hell we can find him." 

One of the officers began asking the receptionist questions, walking her through the encounter. The courier had a cart of supplies to drop off and she had had to badge him through the doors, after which she'd walked with him to the storage area and showed him where to put everything. Once he'd taken her signature, he'd asked the way to the restroom and that was it. She'd lost him for a good five minutes. The cameras, however, had picked him up making a stop in one of the treatment labs on the way, no less than thirty seconds, and then he'd finished up and gone right out the front door again. 

Sherlock's eyes were glued to the screen. The gunman had been convincing, and careful. "You'll be looking for someone with specialized training. Not a common soldier. Someone noted for skilled marksmanship, infiltration." The real question was not only who the man was, but what his connection to Moriarty had been that provoked this amount of rage. A skilled criminal that had known that the shark higher up the chain was gone would just take advantage of the empty space and continue business as usual.

Lestrade shook his head. "I'll contact special forces, but if he was ever related to any of the higher ups, you know your brother is going to be our best contact. They don't tell me shit, even when public safety's on the line." He wiped a hand over his face. "We've got every vaccine company in the country warned now. He won't be trying this route again, but that doesn't mean we're in the clear. Not with body parts showing up on doorsteps. And if we take away too many of his options, he's going to get rid of Dr. Russell."

Sherlock's eyes turned distant while he thought. Tracing the man by his military record would inevitably yield some information; he'd wring the data out of Mycroft one way or another, national security be damned. He could also alert his homeless network. As notable as the man's physical features were and as much as he wanted to keep out of sight, there were only so many places in London to hide, and there were eyes everywhere, both electronic and organic. "With the public notified, the chances of an idiot opening suspect packages are minimized."

They were going to run out of time. With the plan foiled, and multiple people having seen his face, the gunman now had a captive that was a major liability. The logical thing for him to do would be to kill the doctor in order to ease his own disappearance now that the mission had failed. By the time they traced the gunman's name and likely whereabouts, they could be looking at another dead body.

"Excuse me for a moment," Sherlock muttered and pushed back through the crowd. He saw Lestrade eye him suspiciously, so Sherlock made a straight line for the nearest restroom as a pretense. His hand slipped into his coat pocket to retrieve his phone. The earlier text was still there, giving him a route to send a new one. _Do you still have Dr. Russell?_

The door banged shut behind Sherlock, leaving him in stillness that was a sharp contrast to the foyer outside. It took a few minutes of impatient waiting, but he finally received a reply. 

_Yes._

And as it came, the air grew thicker. It was just the subtlest sense that something might have changed. Sherlock felt a familiar icy trickle down the back of his neck. 

He moved into a stall, just in case Lestrade got any bright ideas and tried to follow him. _Release him and we'll talk. But without the attempted murder this time._

Sherlock's curiosity had been piqued. None of Moriarty's other network operatives had been like this man, which meant that they'd had a different relationship. He wanted to know more. 

As far as bargaining went, and as long as the man didn't have an escape route out of England planned - which in spite of his special forces training was unlikely - Sherlock technically had the upper hand. This man's plan rested on getting rid of Sherlock in that warehouse. He'd have gotten his revenge on both Sherlock and the country in one fell swoop. Lestrade and the Met would not have connected the dots in time to stop the contaminated vaccinations from spreading. 

_What could you possibly have to say to me, Sherlock Holmes?_

And that sealed it. He was stalling, trying to gather more information because he didn't have a next step other than to run. And he'd been on the run for three years already. 

_I think we'd both like to figure out what happened in that warehouse, beyond your failed assassination._ It had happened to both of them at once, or the gunman wouldn't have failed. Sherlock wasn't the only one who had been startled. _Release the doctor, unharmed, and we'll arrange for a meeting. No tricks, not a sting operation. Just you and me._

 _Not a chance. I'd kill you._

And yet there was no way this man couldn't be just as curious. He'd been dripping blood by the time he'd run off. He'd fired at thin air multiple times. He had to be either spooked out of his mind or convinced that somehow Sherlock had done it. And that was a theory that didn't stand up.

_Somehow, I think that's a bad idea, considering what happened when you tried._ Somewhat of a bluff, but perhaps it would make the man pause. _I think you want to figure out what happened as much as I do. If you want to continue your quest for revenge, or whatever this is afterwards? So be it._

Sherlock had to wait a long time for the next text. So long he almost thought the man had cut communication and given up. But at the very last moment, Sherlock's phone chimed again. 

_I set the location, and you come now._ If Sherlock had been planning to double cross him, it wouldn't give him much time. 

Sherlock nearly mistyped in his rush to reply. _Deal, but I'll need travel time. I'm not currently in London._ Lestrade would be furious when he found out Sherlock had gone off into danger again and withheld information. If he got answers out of this, Sherlock was willing to weather the DI's ire. Angry as Lestrade might get, his assistance was too valuable for him to be barred from cases for too long.

_I can guess where you are._ Somehow he'd intercepted the news the Met were essentially raiding vaccine companies then, but his wording indicated he didn't know which Sherlock had visited. That meant he either had a contact inside or he was monitoring police communications. Either would be just as likely. _Let's make a show of it, then. Meet me at Charing Cross. You've got an hour. Better hurry._

Sherlock pocketed his phone and made his way out of the room. Luckily, Greg was busy with the facility security, gathering data and making calls. Sherlock snuck out the way he'd come. Taking one of the trains would set him back by too much time to make the connection, which meant he needed another option.

A handful of minutes later, Sherlock was racing down the roads at well over the speed limit in a commandeered squad car. Lestrade would definitely be pissed, maybe even enough to arrest him, but Sherlock had spent the night in a cell for far less worthy causes.

Traffic slowed him down once he entered the city, but not for long. The lights and the sirens made sure of that. 

Charing Cross, public as it was, would give his mysterious opponent plenty of ways out. Four directions he could escape by car alone, not to mention Trafalgar Square. On foot, he could be lost within seconds in the crowd, the underground, or any of the nearby buildings if he had access. If the man had been close to Moriarty, chances were he had ‘access' to most of London.

Sherlock ditched the squad car on the side of the road and made his way into Charing Cross station on foot. He walked up and down the long hall, searching this way and that around arrival terminals and the shops. He scanned the crowd as well as above it. It was unlikely that the gunman would be sitting in one of the windows that looked out under the roof covering or the scaffolding above the shop fronts, but one never knew. CCTV cameras were all over the area, turning back and forth as they monitored the crowd.

It wasn't until he reached the other side that he felt he’d found the perfect spot, a section where the walkway narrowed and the crowd thickened, shops on either side yet many spaces in between, difficult to see from above. And not a moment later, the scarred man from the warehouse came sweeping out of the crowd and effortlessly took up a casual stroll beside Sherlock. 

"Holmes," the man all but growled. 

"Admirable choice of location, except for the cameras." Either they had been temporarily disabled, or the gunman didn't mind being caught on tape. Sherlock's gaze swept over the man quickly now that they were closer and in steady lighting. The blond radiated a barely suppressed fury, hands clenching slightly. His clothing hung slightly heavier in some places. Concealed weapons, most likely. "We need to talk, and we don't have much time before the Met find the car I took and start combing the area for me. I need to know if you did anything to the warehouse before bringing me there, anything that would explain part of what happened."

Ice blue eyes darted Sherlock's way before the man's gaze fixed on where they were headed. "No." His voice was deep, but Sherlock could tell not naturally this aggressive. This meeting with Sherlock, Sherlock being alive, was deeply upsetting him and it showed. His entire frame was tense. Had they not been in a public place, Sherlock may very well have had to worry for his life. And yet this man had chosen the location, knowing he would have to restrain himself. "And I know you didn't either, unless you're ten times more resourceful than even Jim knew." His words cut off sharply, Moriarty's name spoken in bitterness. 

The criminal's first name rolled easily off this man's tongue, but for an emotional catch. That and the brief microexpression on the other man's face told Sherlock the reason behind his anger. This wasn't revenge for losing a boss or business partner. This _was_ personal. Sherlock watched the gunman out of the corner of his eye and wondered, yet again, what it was that drew people together. He hadn't known Moriarty well enough to guess what would have attracted him, apart from the barely-contained violence and the challenge. 

"No, I didn't," Sherlock quietly agreed. "And I wouldn't have had time to set anything up. The lights, by themselves, could have been explained by bad wiring or other mundane causes. I haven't been able to figure out the rest." The wind, the voice. The locked doors and thrown tools.

The man stopped, all pretense dropping from his shoulders as he squared to face Sherlock. He didn't care if he was seen. He must have known they'd already had or soon would find him on camera if they'd found the vaccine labs. Hiding his face after that was pointless. He was probably already planning to run again after this encounter. 

"It doesn't matter, does it?" The man's jaw set, one deep scar moving visibly over the indent of his teeth. "For whatever reason, you got lucky." Sherlock got the feeling this man would have told him he wasn't one to hold on hope. And yet, he was here, meeting with Sherlock and risking his life just to hear that Sherlock didn't know any more than he did. 

"It matters because we're both rational men, and from what I can see of you, you shouldn't have missed your mark. Something frightened both of us, enough for your aim to falter. Enough for me to risk giving you another shot in order to find answers. Enough for you to risk meeting me rather than immediately fleeing the country now that your plan’s been derailed." Sherlock tensed, ready to jump back should the other man decide to try to snap his neck before running. "We both heard him. I keep seeing him in places he cannot possibly be. I need to find out what's going on."

Blue eyes narrowed. A muscle in the man's jaw jumped when he took a barely restrained breath. He hadn't liked Sherlock mentioning what they'd heard, but there was now no denying that he'd heard it, too. 

"Sounds like you've got a problem, Mr. Holmes," the man leaned in ever so slightly, posture challenging, everything in his stance calling on Sherlock's instincts to either fight or run. This man felt most comfortable in a fight, and it was showing. "Cause whatever happened, that was the one time I've seen it. I'd get your head scanned if I were you."

Threatening Sherlock was always the wrong thing to do. Even when he knew he was outmatched, his reaction was to dig his heels in and fight. Repetitive disappointments and challenges, both in his childhood and later in life, had solidified this tendency to the point of fault. "There's a problem, but it's not only mine. If it was just me, you wouldn't have missed." Sherlock straightened, not letting the other man intimidate him into putting space between them. "Which means we're not done. If something is happening with me that involves Moriarty, you won't be able to stay away and stay out of it. Whatever he was to you, your attachment is going to draw you back."

"He is _dead_." The man snapped. He rushed Sherlock. All his weight went into it. They collided with the wall, one of his forearms at Sherlock's throat. But the man was fighting with himself. They couldn't make a scene here. He had to get away and yet he could barely restrain his own fury. His clenched teeth and flashing eyes told Sherlock he would have loved to rip out the detective's throat right there on the spot, but then he was pushing away, turning, heading swiftly through the crowd. 

Sherlock went after him, making good headway; the gunman was bulky enough that he couldn't easily weave through the crowd and left a small wake behind him before the people closed up again. Sherlock's throat ached in a way that told him he'd have a vivid bruise in a few minutes.

He couldn't leave anything alone. That'd been the story of Sherlock's life: whether it was missing shoes or clever thefts, Sherlock needed puzzles to throw himself into. He couldn't live a mundane life, no matter how much he irritated his brother, worried his parents, or watched John Watson slip away from him into domesticity. Asking uncomfortable questions and putting himself into dangerous situations was what he had.

Unfortunately, the man had gone straight for the nearest exit possible, and once they were outside everything was up in the air. Sherlock was fast, he knew every street and every alley, but this man could give him a good run. And once they were alone.... 

_"Either way, you're gonna lose him,"_ a voice came from the back of Sherlock's mind. It may have sounded suspiciously like Jim, but that was quite normal after having made the construct who eventually turned insane. Sherlock had needed someone to talk to, and this familiar voice was giving him an extra nudge. 

As fast as he was, he couldn't make it in time. The blond man caught the sliding doors and the moment his foot hit stone steps, he was sprinting. 

Things became trickier once they were out on the streets. They were both of an equal height, long-legged, but Sherlock spent long periods in-between cases lounging around and working in his makeshift laboratory. The gunman clearly was not just muscle for show; Sherlock might be able to match him in stride length and speed, but clearly couldn't match him in sheer endurance. The blond wove through the crowd and didn't spare any dirty tricks, toppling pedestrians and street debris to slow Sherlock down.

The moment they entered an alleyway, the moment they reached a blind spot between two CCTV cameras, it happened. 

The man was a good twenty yards ahead of Sherlock and he went down. He didn't lose his footing. He hadn't been looking back. He hadn't hit anything. One moment his feet were connected with the pavement and the next they were not and he was sprawling forward until he hit the ground. 

Sherlock could see the surprise on his face as he tumbled and strained to get back on his feet. 

" _Sebastian!_ " Sherlock shouted, without having meant to. The man's steps faltered. " _Don't you walk away from me._ "

It was Sherlock's turn for surprise. One of his hands flew to his throat, as if in denial that those words had come from his own vocal chords.

Sebastian must have been the man's name, from the way he looked at Sherlock as he turned. Sherlock could have deduced any number of things about the blond's tastes and habits, his past history, but he'd never summoned a name out of thin air before. "That... wasn't me."

"Fuck you." The man's jaw set in anger, thinking Sherlock was trying to play him, surmising that Sherlock must have somehow found out his name. His heel scratched the ground as he spun, ready to bolt, but then Sherlock spoke again. 

"Do you want to know how Jim died?" The man hesitated. Sherlock's voice was mocking, and again he couldn't stop. "You were there of course. You saw, you heard, but you didn't hear _all_ , oh _no_. You didn't hear what he whispered to me before he went down, how pitiful he sounded..." 

Something was clearly wrong. The blond looked back at Sherlock only to find that the mocking, almost _lilting_ voice matched up to a horrified face. Sherlock's hand was at his throat again, eyes wide in disbelief that he could feel vibration. That this was issuing from his own lungs. He tried to raise his hand to muffle his own speech only for the limb to jerk to a halt just short of his mouth.

Sebastian stalked toward Sherlock, fury in every step even if the slightest hint of confusion danced in his eyes. 

"That's right, Seb. _Make me pay,_ Your dear old boss died because of me. I might as well have pulled the trigger myself. I sure would have liked to - " 

Sebastian's teeth pulled back in rage. His steps quickened. The tables had turned and Sebastian was ready to kill. 

Sherlock knew he had no time to figure out what was going on. One look at Sebastian's face and he knew there's be no reasoning with him. Sherlock turned and fled back the way he'd come as fast as he could go, hoping that he wouldn't trip. Hoping that his legs wouldn't give out; he could feel another spike of fatigue traveling through him, much like he'd felt earlier in the day. Like his body was a vehicle running off a tank of energy, and someone kept siphoning everything it out when he wasn't looking, leaving him running on fumes.

The man was at his heels until they reached the street, but Sherlock burst out into the open world and he didn't follow. He didn't dare. Instead, he reached into his jacket, brought out a P7 Heckler and Koch and aimed it at the back of Sherlock's head. The bullet whizzed by Sherlock's ear so close he was nearly knocked down from the shock of it. 

Sherlock ducked low and raced around the corner for cover as quickly as he could. He was fairly certain that the gunman wouldn't follow him and assassinate him at point-blank range in the middle of a public street, but he was also a man with little left to lose. Sherlock stumbled and kept going, his vision swimming and his balance thrown off. He felt ill, like he was stumbling around in a fever dream. 

After a few minutes with no further incident, Sherlock realized that his neck felt damp. Fingertips went to his ear and came away with a red streak; The bullet had grazed the edge, just enough for a slow trickle to ooze its way down the side of his head. Sherlock glanced back over his shoulder, saw nothing, and stepped out to the kerb to flag down a cab.

The several minutes he waited were spent looking over his shoulder. Every passerby heading to and from the station or having crossed from Trafalgar Square was potentially the gunman come to shoot him down. Relief came with a dusty black cab, pulling up in front of him and barely unlocking the door before Sherlock was climbing in. 

"Where to?" the elderly cabbie asked, just as the temperature began dropping again. 

"221 Baker Street, next to Regent's Park." Sherlock wasn't feeling up to going anywhere else. Cold settled into his bones next to the lethargy, and he shivered. He could patch up his own ear with his limited medical supplies, but he didn't know how to fix the greater problem. A skilled assassin was angrier than ever and still looking for the chance to murder him, and Sherlock still had no idea what was going on. All he knew was that either he'd stumbled into something few people had encountered before, or he truly was losing his grip on reality, as the constructed Moriarty in his head had taunted him so many times.

Reaching back into his head to search for that Moriarty was futile. The more Sherlock reached the more he realized that that Moriarty simply wasn't there any longer. In his place roamed a seething, pulsing, vicious presence that Sherlock could do no more than feel without coming away with beads of sweat prickling at his temples and dread pooling in his stomach. 

Sherlock turned his head to watch London roll by on the other side of the window. His phone was silent, but Lestrade had to have long known by now that he'd illegally borrowed the squad car to come back to the city. It was only a matter of time before he asked questions, perhaps in person.

The cab pulled to a halt in front of his flat and Sherlock paid the man before stumbling towards the front door. His legs felt leaden, and every step was a struggle, but he made it in and up the stairs, crawling instead of taking the flight in a dignified posture. He paused once he reached the safety and solitude of 221B.

Impossibilities aside, what if it had been real? If the events of the past several hours had actually occurred, rather than being a bizarre fever dream and shared hallucination, Sherlock dreaded what would happen if he fell asleep again. 

Feeling like he was half-mad, Sherlock shuffled his way into the kitchen and put the kettle on. "...what do you want from me?" he whispered.

He hadn't expected an answer. But he got one. 

_"I want you dead."_ was the whisper in his ear just as he was reaching to turn on the tap. It was so close it could have been rattling inside his own head, and yet he felt it like breath against the shell of his ear. 

Sherlock's hand froze in mid-air. He was still but for his breathing for a few heartbeats, trying to determine whether he'd really heard what he thought he had. 

He'd already started down this route by speaking aloud. He might as well continue exploring this delusion to the end, or so he reasoned. "...but why? To get even? To finish what you'd attempted? I never wanted for you to die, and I don't want to die now."

 _"I died. You lived."_ The echo of Moriarty's voice sounded as exhausted as Sherlock was, but there was a clear undercurrent of rage there, fiery in tone and yet cold as ice just under Sherlock's skin. 

In fact, that feeling was spreading. Sherlock had experienced, or come close to experiencing, frostbite in his life, and that was what it felt like. Starting in his chest, working over his torso, the cold he'd felt before was now inside him.

"So you'll try to sabotage my life and rob me of sleep until I commit suicide and join you?" The cold was more than uncomfortable; it was actually alarming. Sherlock left the electric kettle to handle itself and started to drag himself towards the bathroom, intent on using the water to warm himself up. If all of this was shock from nearly being shot, he could deal with it. He'd dealt with worse in the last two years. "I'm not known for being tactful. It doesn't matter if I start muttering gibberish so long as I can still solve cases. Lestrade will keep me on, and John and Mary will forgive me." 

The oddest half rushing wind, half human vocalization of rage split Sherlock's head until the kitchen light burst, raining sparks down onto Sherlock's leftover experiments. 

_"You are pathetic. I don't know how I could have ever thought we were the same."_ It was Moriarty's voice, loud and clear, but it came in gasps. His truncations of words sounded like he were fighting the same exhaustion Sherlock was feeling. _"Your friends can't save you…from me."_

"Friends..." Sherlock's voice trailed off into quiet laughter and he shook his head. That ended up being a bad impulse; his vision swam for a few seconds afterwards. It didn't seem odd to him that the light had burst, just like the ones in the warehouse. He was stuck in a mad half-dream that reminded of his old days on opiates. "I don't have _friends_. I had one. _Had._ "

Sherlock's thoughts diverted to John for a few moments while he turned the shower taps and started the water heating up. 243 hours had passed since John had last called, give or take a few handfuls of minutes. A week and a half by common reckoning. He'd been counting, and the sting had only increased as the gap had grown.

He shrugged out of his shirt and began working on his trouser fastenings.

_"And yet look at you, clinging to them."_

The delusion in Sherlock's head went silent as he undressed, like Moriarty were trying to catch his breath while he could. When Sherlock stepped under the spray it was nearly scalding since his skin had already been so cold and he could hear the faintest sense of chuckling in the back of his mind. 

"You tried to do the same, in your own way." Sherlock leaned against the tile and sighed. The water was helping, but he still felt frozen somewhere in his core, like his stomach was filled with ice and chilling all the organs and blood around it. "You didn't want to be alone, and when we were playing, for a brief time you weren't, because someone met you halfway. I never expected to ever stop being alone, but then I had an assistant, and later a friend. I'm not certain what he is now, because clearly I'm alone again." Solitude was no longer protective when it became a loss.

Moriarty had gone suddenly quiet. Time stretched out and the coldness in the very pit of Sherlock's body seemed to lessen. 

Minutes ticked by. 

Until the cold returned. In full force. But it wasn't just cold this time. Sherlock's chest tightened painfully, a pressure that lasted and only increased. It spread outward over his back, down his arms, leaving him short of breath and lightheaded. 

Sherlock's mind raced; he knew this. He'd studied it - not just the signs, but the aftereffects. He stumbled out of the shower and out of the bathroom, shivering from cold as damp skin hit the cool air of the flat. He had nitroglycerine with the rest of his lab supplies. If he could just get to it in time...

Pressure increased again and made Sherlock reel. His fingers felt numb and weren't moving correctly. He was having trouble sorting through the bottles in the lower cabinets where he kept his supplies, and he felt like he wasn't getting enough air. "...stop," Sherlock whispered. When the vice in his chest didn't give up, he tried again. "...Jim, stop. Please."

 _"You left me alone, to rot, for three years."_ Jim might as well have been whispering right against his temple. Throughout the pain, Sherlock could feel the phantom brush of icy lips. _"What have you got to live for?"_ Sherlock was dropping, the pressure was pulling him in, sinking into that inky darkness Jim seemed to be made of in his dreams. _"Come away with me, Sherlock."_

Sherlock couldn't read the labels in front of him anymore. Black was creeping into the corners of his vision. If this didn't stop, Sherlock was fairly certain he'd never be waking up again. "...I want..." To live. "...make a deal. Stop..." He could hear the kettle whistling from a great distance away, echoing down a long hallway despite the fact it was only a meter or two from himself.

_"The only thing you can give me, Sherlock..."_ Jim's voice was breathless with the effort he was exerting. His presence wrapped around Sherlock like a blanket, struggling to pull him under. Jim had once said they were one. He was making good on that statement now. If one of them were dead, so would the other be. _"...is you."_

"Yes, but..." Sherlock's breathing was too fast, too short. He felt like he was suffocating, barely able to whisper. "...not like this." Synapses were firing randomly, flashing a confused tangle of memories through his head. Images from hours ago surfaced: the glitter of the sea through a window, and a presence pinning him down.

Sherlock's decision was made in a split second; his desire to survive trumped his fear and revulsion of any other possibilities. "...violate..."

Seconds passed. The pressure eased.

It left Sherlock choking on the floor, gasping for breath, clutching at his chest as Jim slunk back to wherever he'd come. 

The room was still icy. Sherlock was lying naked on the kitchen floor in a puddle of water, and Jim, Sherlock could feel those dead eyes on him, even if there was no one in the room. 

Though it came as a relief, the silence was almost as unnerving as Moriarty's rage.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock shut his eyes and tried to just concentrate on breathing while the numbness left his limbs. A splitting headache replaced the pain in his chest, but he thought the price was well worth it. He was still alive, and the pain was proof of that. Eventually he rolled over and got back upright, bracing himself against the wall with one hand and returning to the bathroom to take the chill off again. The eerie sensation of being watched followed him.

Now that he was out of immediate danger and had time to consider, the full implications of what he'd said were beginning to dawn on him. If this was real, he'd just agreed to something he'd always found unthinkable in exchange for his own life. 

And still for all he'd just been through, Moriarty remained silent. He was a prickle at the edge of Sherlock's senses, spewing neither rage nor taunts nor advances. Nothing.

Sherlock's bones were warming. But the room remained cold. For whatever reason, Moriarty had released his hold. 

Maybe he'd been as surprised as Sherlock was now. Maybe he'd been affronted. Maybe he'd been interested. Maybe Sherlock had done something Moriarty had loved about Sherlock since the very beginning - maybe Sherlock had done something unexpected. 

He scrubbed a hand over his face, then through his hair. When he felt sufficiently thawed out he turned the water off and began to dry off and dress, hoping that he would get to keep his body heat this time. Or at least die in dignity, rather than being found naked in a messy pile of chemical supplies. He added extra layers, just in case.

The silent presence followed him back out to the kitchen, where his kettle was still whistling. He set a cup of tea to brewing and leaned against the counter, head bowed. "...say something." Anything would be better than this unnerving quiet, like a monster was hiding in a corner of the room, waiting for the right moment to leap out and sink teeth in.

Nothing answered. The presence slunk back until Sherlock was alone. Or he thought he was.

_"Is this really what we've come to?"_ Jim's was silken smooth against Sherlock's ear. He'd lost most of his breathlessness, but it was still faint. Like he'd worked himself too hard. _"I'm dead and you're ready to fuck."_

If Sherlock didn't know better, Moriarty's tone held a note of despair. 

Sherlock was quiet for a long moment. He retrieved the teabag from the mug and binned it, then sat at the kitchen table. He warmed his hands with the mug, ignoring the chemistry paraphernalia that flanked him on either side. "...not as if I have much of a choice. I don't want you to kill me, and there's little else I can offer that you seem interested in."

Sherlock felt mad, talking to an impossibility, but he had no other explanation for this. Not now. "I'm not _ready_ for anything." Certainly not whatever Moriarty might have in mind. "...but I'd survive it."

_"How do you know that?"_ Moriarty taunted, seemingly unable to resist the jibe. But he went silent after. Both threats hung in the air between Sherlock and the great void of nothing he was speaking to. Sherlock could be pretty certain Moriarty wanted him dead. But he'd stopped. And it was difficult to tell if Sherlock's entreaty had done it or whether there was something else. 

"...I'm hedging my bets that it's not something you'll want once and then never again." Sherlock himself wasn't certain he could really go through with it; sex had always been something intimidating, out of the reach of understanding, something that could be observed to cloud minds. And that required an extraordinary amount of trust in another person, something Sherlock had rarely been able to bring himself to do. 

Various people were attractive, of course. Sherlock wasn't blind to such things, but he'd trained himself to overlook it in order to make it easier to suppress any desire for more, or reflect on loneliness. John had held potential, as someone both attractive and trustworthy who'd also miraculously been able to tolerate Sherlock's personality and behaviors, but when the doctor had held fast to the belief that he truly was exclusively heterosexual, the wall had gone back up.

Sherlock heard low breaths of laughter between his ears. _"Oh Sherlock,"_ Jim lilted, _"I could never quite fathom what it was like before, being in your head. How sweet you really are. It's tempting. So, so tempting..."_ The voice became closer somehow, slithering down Sherlock's spine like warm oil. _"How funny it is,_ " Jim continued smoothly, _"that you should find yourself just as alone as I am. After allll the trouble you went to..._ "

Sherlock's spine stiffened. He didn't take defeat well, or the implication of it. Neither did he care to be painted as sweet and innocent; it was too close to the way Mycroft had always mocked him for not having a stomach for particular things. "Yes, well. We all do foolish things every now and again. I knew caring wasn't an advantage, and being alone secured the avoidance of pain, and I tried anyways." He was happy John was happy, truly, but that didn't mean he wasn't simultaneously bitter and angry about being pushed aside and forgotten.

Jim groaned, aggravation turning into something less...stable, cutting through the air in a sharp cry. _"I don't care about your star crossed love for an emotionally stunted flatmate, Sherlock. I'd have shot him dead on the spot had I known you'd survive the fall."_ Jim sounded jealous maybe, bitter definitely. _"One more word and you're as dead as I am."_ His voice turned into a snarl, and that was the first time Sherlock felt something, something not cold but not quite warm either, press against his chest, like a palm over his sternum. 

It wasn't threatening, exactly. It was...possessive.

Sherlock opened his mouth, thought the better of it, and closed it again. His voice was silent, but his thoughts weren't. A jolt of fear lanced through him at the threat and touch, but the rest of him was trying to untangle too many threads at once: what Jim wanted, where this might go, how to keep everyone else out of it. 

It only stood to reason that if Moriarty could attack his heart, he could do the same to any other living person that took his fancy.

_"Go lie down, Sherlock,"_ Jim whispered. _"You don't look so good."_ The pressure on his chest eased, becoming delicate, alighting up his collarbone and sweeping across his shoulder in the direction of the bedroom. Though Sherlock still couldn't see anything, he could feel the presence moving away from him like Jim were beckoning him to follow. 

Sherlock glanced down at his rapidly-cooling tea. He didn't have the stomach for it. His plan upon arriving home had been to warm up and avoid drifting off to sleep, under the theory that if his experiences with Moriarty were real, that he might have limited reach and power while Sherlock was awake. Clearly this wasn't the case, and there wasn't much point in putting off the inevitable. He'd just worry until he finally reached the point of collapse, and that was if his avoidance didn't piss Jim off.

Sherlock abandoned the mug on the table and made his way back into the bedroom. The sheets were still a tangle from a few hours ago. He disrobed, painfully self-conscious for once. He slid underneath the covers and wrapped them tightly around himself, as if warding off the cold and Jim were the same thing. 

_"That's it, that's better,"_ the voice came again, unnaturally soothing this time, like Jim would be petting Sherlock's hair and cradling his head if he could. It was an entirely transparent sense of security he was expressing, but at least it wasn’t outright malice. _"Now close your eyes and think of...me."_

Jim might as well have said England. His sudden mood shift was the opposite of comforting, but Sherlock complied. It didn't matter whether his eyes were open or not - he couldn't see the man anyway. 

Sherlock started breathing in cycles, counting as he inhaled and exhaled. The exercises were normally soothing, as a way of quieting his thoughts, but it didn't dissolve the dread that had pooled in his stomach. 

Despite that, Sherlock started to doze off. He hadn't slept well when he'd collapsed earlier, and Jim's actions had left him feeling terribly drained, not just in terms of raw energy, but from stress.

Darkness swallowed him before he realized it.

He opened his eyes to a void. It was the pinpricked blackness of space again, but this time it was all in the distance. There were no galaxies hovering light years away but seeming just overhead. There were no comets, no suns, just stars in the far off edges of Sherlock's vision. 

And as he turned, there was Jim, standing with his hands in his pockets and the same serene smile on his face Sherlock remembered when they'd met face to face. And just as he'd done by the poolside years ago, Jim put one foot in front of the other and slowly, casually sauntered Sherlock's way. 

Sherlock backed up slowly, all wariness. The void surrounding them was disorienting, and no sooner had he thought as much then his heels stepped onto carpet. A brief glance behind himself told Sherlock that he'd managed to juxtapose whatever Jim's space was with a piece of his own mind palace.

Jim didn't seem upset by the change of scenery. His smile didn't falter, but Sherlock knew better than to trust that the man's expression matched his feelings.

Jim glanced down, his head cocking, considering. Considering that Sherlock was just as capable of calling up the familiar spaces of his mind palace. Specifically, a long hall. Carved wood paneling. ...Classic. Jim's gaze swept back up to Sherlock. 

"Feeling a little 'out of place', are we?" Moriarty began his advance again.

Sherlock felt only marginally more secure in this environment. It reinforced the fact that he was in his own mind and had some measure of control. "...I prefer manmade surroundings. Space has its own aesthetics, but is also disorienting and uninviting." Sherlock's back hit one of the doors scattered around the hallways, which branched off into several directions. His heart was pounding in his chest, but there was nowhere to go - not really. Jim would just chase him around his own mind until he got what he wanted, or until Sherlock woke up and was punished for thwarting him.

Dark lashes lowered as Jim rolled his head slowly in an unusual yet strikingly familiar motion. Sherlock had seen him do it before. When he was alive. 

Moriarty was getting well within Sherlock's space now, as slow as ever, until his head tilted back and he was up on his tiptoes and his chest pressed against Sherlock's chest. Jim's gaze dissected him on the spot. Every microexpression Sherlock couldn't hold in, the beat of his heart, the stiffness in his limbs, until one side of Jim's mouth was curling in a half smile. 

"Come down here," he purred. 

Sherlock frowned. 

He didn't understand quite what Jim meant by that. He wasn't standing on anything elevated, and he didn't think the smaller man would immediately jump to... other things. Sherlock swallowed and a blush crept into his cheeks; suddenly all of the times he'd teased Donovan weren't so funny.

Deciding that Jim must have been referencing the differences in their respective heights, Sherlock slouched awkwardly, bending slightly at the knees and curving his spine until they were eye-level with one another. "...better?"

Moriarty's face split into a grin.

Sherlock must have looked just as awkward as he felt, but Jim's eyes were dancing over his face, taking in every pore and lash and eating it all up. It was odd that he should still look at Sherlock that way, if he were in fact dead. It was odd that he should have such base human desires at all. But the next thing Sherlock knew, Jim was moving in and there was a warm mouth pressed against his own. 

Jim pushed. Sherlock's back hit the wall. The little criminal growled, some of his camouflaged anger showing through, but he didn't let go. 

Sherlock stayed tense for a few moments. His mind began hysterically cataloguing sensations and extraneous data while he was still and unresponsive, just letting Jim kiss him.

Jim's growl hummed into his mouth. It sent a tingle up Sherlock's spine, and part of him just... stopped. His lips moved before he was aware of his own response, shyly pressing back. 

The sensation brought back memories of their earlier kiss. Sherlock wondered what it said about him that his first _real_ kiss was not only with the man who had been his mortal enemy, but who was also _dead_.

Jim wasn't content for long. His eyes closed. His hands palmed up Sherlock's chest, up his neck, until Jim caught him by the hair and held him there. One of Jim's thighs raised, wedging in between Sherlock's, and his hips bucked forward and suddenly there was quite a lot of very direct friction between them. Until Jim tossed his head back, breaking the kiss with a breath, but easing off nowhere else. 

Sherlock was the epitome of a deer caught in the headlights. Still flushed from the kiss, he didn't know how to react to this - long habit told him to run, to put distance between himself and anyone else. Jim's fingers tightened in his hair, and there was no question of escaping.

Sherlock found that his body, long neglected, was reacting regardless of whatever his wishes might be. Touch from another person was very different than touching oneself. 

Jim's eyes crinkled with a smile, obviously enjoying the look. "Oh Sherlock," he breathed, pitch and tone changing _yet again_ from where he'd been before. "If you died, how would I ever torment you so?" He sounded almost nostalgic, like Sherlock was some ephemeral thing. And, perhaps, now he was. To Moriarty at least. Which posed an odd paradox in the dead criminal. Moriarty was angry enough to want to end Sherlock's life, and yet... 

And yet. 

"Is that what you're aiming for, torment?" Sherlock was doing his best to stay as composed as he could, but even he couldn't suppress automatic reactions. His eyes had grown dark, and Jim's targeted friction was causing a predictable reaction. "I'm just a toy to break, in death or some other manner?"

"Don't be simple, Sherlock," Jim hissed with a press of his thigh. "As much as I want to break you, you're all I have left." Jim's head rolled. He didn't shy away from that statement, that weakness. It was a cutting remark, just as Jim had so often thrown at Sherlock in life. Then again, Jim had been despondent enough in life to give up everything he had, including whatever he thought Sherlock was to him, for his story. For the Game. For the final escape. 

Jim was close enough to feel Sherlock's body tense at that additional pressure. An odd light flickered through the detective's eyes at Jim's words. He was remembering some of his speculation and some of the stilted conversations he'd had with his constructed, false Moriarty.

Backed into a corner like this, Sherlock reasoned that he didn't have much to lose in trying to test his hypothesis; Jim was unlikely to kill him in retaliation. With that thought in mind, Sherlock's hands finally rose from where they'd been splayed against the wall behind him. One arm circled around Jim's waist, while the other hand drifted to the smaller man's neck.

Jim's eyes widened and followed Sherlock's hands to his own body.

Sherlock had obviously done something unexpected...but it didn't seem to be unwelcome. Not from the way Jim sagged against him slightly. Jim found Sherlock watching him just as intently when their eyes met again. One slender eyebrow arched. 

"Know what you're doing?" Jim asked, but there was no spite in it. Rather, it was a challenge. 

"Not really." Seeing things done and having done them oneself weren't quite the same. Sherlock had observed many different types of ways that affection was physically expressed, but hadn't tried them much. Not beyond what had been required to put up a front and get himself into Magnussen's office. Sherlock knew he couldn't adopt such an obvious persona; Jim would see right through it. 

Eyes wary, Sherlock decided to try something he'd seen that looked simple enough. He pulled Jim closer but turned aside at the last moment, touching his lips to the criminal's neck.

"Oooh, _Sherlock_. Aren't you the precocious one?" Jim teased, but Sherlock could feel Moriarty shiver. They were pressed that close. Jim didn't rebuff his advance either. In fact he tilted his head to invite Sherlock to more skin and even rewarded him with the slow slide of hip and thigh. 

Jim had not agreed upon any terms to this little game of theirs. They were both aware of this. There was no guarantee he would stop tormenting Sherlock if they went through with this, in fact it was very unlikely. It was, however, more likely that Jim would be less inclined to stop Sherlock’s heart. Jim's body language was also encouraging, but his words had the opposite effect. Sherlock was doing this out of a mix of self-preservation and curiosity about what made the smaller man tick. He was painfully aware of the fact that he had no experience, and being teased didn't help his confidence when he'd been teased about this particular area of his life a little too often.

Sherlock frowned and, in a fit of spite, bit Jim. The smaller man cried out, jerking against Sherlock, but a second later Jim was laughing.

He shoved into Sherlock and Sherlock shoved him back, holding on until Jim's hand came up to the back of Sherlock's neck and held him there, right where he was. Like Jim didn't mind being bitten. Like any passionate reaction out of Sherlock was good in his mind. 

Pale skin broke and Jim hissed, but Sherlock couldn't tell whether in pleasure or in pain because Jim's knee was between them again and their hips were slotted back together and Jim hitched himself up on his toes to get the perfect angle...

Sherlock groaned, but it wasn't from the friction. He'd bitten Jim too hard, and a coppery tang hit his tongue. His hold on the smaller man immediately tightened, locking him in place so he couldn't pull away.

Finally Sherlock pulled back just enough to look at his handiwork. He hadn't done much damage, but a few puncture marks dotted Jim's skin, bright crimson welling to the surface.

Sherlock's breathing hitched.

Black eyes darted to his face. The rest of Jim didn't move, but slowly, ever so slowly, something dawned in that gaze. Sherlock could see it happen, the way Jim's eyes focused, grew a little wider, the way his mouth turned up at the corner. Jim was still leaking muddy fluid from the back of his head, but what was left on his neck and Sherlock's lips was bright red. 

Jim reached up and touched his fingers to the wound. They came away smeared. 

Knowingly, he met Sherlock's gaze and licked one. "I think I found something Sherlock likes after all," he hummed to himself. 

Sherlock quivered, his eyes flickering back and forth between Jim's face and the digit he'd just licked clean. He hadn't expected ghosts to bleed - not like this, at any rate.

The rest of Jim's fingertips were still coated, held up between them. Jim moved his hand as if to clean another finger off and Sherlock caught his wrist. Slowly, not quite looking at the criminal, he pulled it toward his own mouth. His lips closed around one stained digit and he sucked it clean.

Jim's own mouth turned into a small oval of something Sherlock might not have wanted to analyse, but his mind was fast and Jim's surprise and lust were broadcasting clear. 

The fingers at the back of Sherlock's neck scratched against his scalp, gripping his hair, but neither pulled nor pushed Sherlock away. It was merely a sign of how intensely Jim was thrumming with focus on those full, wet lips around his finger. 

When Sherlock pulled off, Jim collected himself a little, but he was still breathing with an open mouth.  
"I'm dead, Sherlock. You can take more." Jim's smile curled like the devil himself. 

Sherlock looked back in a daze. His hurt was still there, right alongside his confusion, embarrassment, and anger at being trapped in this situation upon pain of death, but there was something else: hunger. Jim might have a confident smile now, but Sherlock hadn't missed the look his smirk had replaced. 

He cleaned off the rest of Jim's hand, watching intently. Sherlock's tongue flicked across the pad of one finger, and the little expression that caused made Sherlock's mouth curl into a smirk of his own.

When there was no more to be gained from Jim's hand, Sherlock turned his attention back to the man's neck. Crimson lines marked his skin from where the blood had run, and Sherlock followed them with his tongue.

Jim's arms wound around Sherlock and the man gasped like it was the best thing he'd ever felt. He was practically purring with every swipe of Sherlock's tongue over such a vulnerable spot. 

It posed a new question. If Jim was already dead, could he die again? More permanently? He could feel, they'd established that. He could even feel pain when Sherlock surprised him. But could he be snuffed out of existence? 

From what Jim had alluded in his invitation, he didn't believe so, but had he tested it? 

Sherlock wondered, and he waited. Jim had always been overly reckless, but he was practically melting at the moment, head tilted to give Sherlock access. 

Sherlock moved when he thought Jim was thoroughly distracted. His judo training kicked in, and he swept Jim's legs out from under him and pushed forward into a controlled fall. Jim hit the ground beneath him and was promptly pinned down. 

Jim's eyes went wide and he gave a startled yelp, but it devolved into a fit of laughs. This time it at least didn't seem to be _at_ Sherlock himself, rather at having Sherlock where Jim wanted him, doing what he wanted.

With Jim underneath Sherlock like that it was easy for him to spread his legs, lift his hips, and grind invitingly against Sherlock above him. His arms locked around Sherlock's back and his body writhed, holding Sherlock down as much as he was pinning Jim. Every move Jim made was calculated to entice Sherlock further, even if they were still fully clothed and Jim's once pristine suit was now rumpled and scratchy. Even when he left lengthy trails of dull red against the carpet wherever the back of his head swiped. 

Sherlock's hand curled around Jim's throat and squeezed until his laughs cut off. Jim wasn't struggling so much as squirming up against him, trying to make Sherlock do more. Or, at least, react the way Jim wanted him to.

Sherlock reminded himself that his body was just transport, that it could be ignored, but it was easier to ignore hunger and other natural impulses when alone, without another person pushing the issue.

Jim's motions were getting slower and weaker with his breathing cut off, but his dark eyes never left Sherlock's face. They were more intense than the construct he'd been visiting for the past two years, full of something Sherlock had not been able to replicate. 

Disgust and shame were making Sherlock's skin crawl, but he couldn't go through with it. 

He struggled out of Jim's weakened arms and pushed away, leaving Jim gasping on the floor.

Jim's arms flailed out, his mouth opened and closed and his lungs heaved. For a few moments he was even coughing. But he didn't make an attempt to get up, not until the fit had subsided and he rolled over to face Sherlock. He looked at Sherlock like he was staring not through him, but right down into his soul, sussing out Sherlock's thoughts....until, again, Jim's mouth curled into a grin. 

"Kinky, Sherlock." He lifted himself on one forearm, draped across the floor now almost seductively. "Don't you want some more?"

Sherlock stared back at Jim. Normally people were predictable - or, perhaps it was more accurate to say that _normal_ people were predictable. Jim's mind was a puzzle, one Sherlock didn't understand and hadn't the slightest idea how to crack. Mysteries always drew him in, but the criminal's behaviors and attitudes simultaneously repelled him. Sherlock was, for once, at a loss for what to do.

"No," he finally rasped, but an idea had taken hold. He'd changed their surroundings once before. This was _his_ mind, which meant he should have the upper hand. Sherlock concentrated, much like he had when building the rooms in this place, and restraints appeared. Shackles snapped into place around Jim's feet and chained him to the floor.

Jim's eyes widened, but the smile didn't fade. "No?" he shot back with a huff of a laugh. "This doesn't look like a 'no'." 

Jim tested one of the shackles, chain rattling as it moved and pulled taut against his shiny leather shoe. He lay on his back, head turned, watching Sherlock all the while. He spread the shackles, and his legs, wider. His hands trailed up the rumpled white of his shirt from groin to sternum, jacket button having long become undone in their scuffling. 

"You certainly have a thing for me in chains."

"You've proven too dangerous and unpredictable when I've let you move freely. Whether it was truly you or a poor copy." Sherlock calmed somewhat. The chains had held; he hadn't lost complete control. Jim's body language was still disturbing, but that was alright. What mattered was that he wasn't going to be pushed up against a wall and touched against his will.

Sherlock stepped a little closer. He could still see dots of fresh blood on the bite wound he'd left. Jim noticed his gaze and tilted his head to give Sherlock a better look. "...why are you like this?" Sherlock asked quietly.

One sharp eyebrow raised. "Why do I want you? Or why am I dead? You know the the latter. Or do you simply mean 'what makes Jim Moriarty tick', hm?" Jim's tone hadn't lost its lilting quality, but his eyes gained a sharper edge and his movements slowed, more focused on Sherlock and his curiosity. 

Jim was, in a way, welcoming. Not fighting his bonds, but waiting with anticipation for Sherlock to come nearer. 

"The first and the last," Sherlock admitted quietly. When his confidence rose, Sherlock moved a little closer yet, stopping and crouching just short of Moriarty's reach. Even still and chained, the shorter man radiated an elegant sort of menace, like a tiger whose owner only _thought_ it was leashed. "If you knew me even half as well as you claim, you'd know this isn't the strategy to take in order to get me. I don't think we understand each other at all."

Jim gave a conciliatory shrug of his shoulders, just for show. "Maybe not," he admitted. "...maybe you just don't know how good it can be. Or maybe what makes me ‘me’ simply won’t allow me to make that concession. We could get to know each other. Very well." Jim's thumb trailed back down the line of his chest. But when he spoke again, his tone dropped to a whisper, secretive, yet for the first time a little more serious than Sherlock had ever seen from him in life. "I've invested too much of myself in you. As you can no doubt see. I have very little left to lose."

Sherlock didn't ask why Jim was overinvested. He knew, on some level. If not the same, they at least had a similar fascination with one another. Even Sherlock had stopped telling himself that he'd reconstructed his adversary merely to gain insight on how to take down his network. The other Jim had been for remembrance and for company.

Sherlock's pale eyes followed the path of Jim's thumb before returning to his face. "Still, little left to lose means that those few things are more precious. I would think you'd be more motivated to keep what you have and secure something more."

"Or end it all, end you. _Again._ " Jim's eyes shuttered. It was like Moriarty couldn't stand the thought of Sherlock being alive while he was dead. Perhaps to Jim, that was an unforgivable insult. The shackles creaked and split open. Jim lunged forward, catching Sherlock by the back of the head in surprise. Jim wrenched himself closer, seething through clenched teeth. "If I were to destroy you, what’s to say I wouldn't still remain, stuck in this monotonous _limbo_. It's worse than life, Sherlock. It really is."

Sherlock struggled, but Jim had already put him off-balance and tipped him over. His feet were tucked beneath him and useless for leverage, and Jim quickly pinned both of his hands. For all that the criminal was shorter, he'd never been weaker. Sheer emotion seemed to lend disproportional strength to his smaller frame, and Sherlock had never been one for lifting weights.

The detective was left staring up into dark eyes again, tossed right back into the pool of fear he'd only just climbed out of. "If you destroyed me, then you'd truly be alone," Sherlock pointed out.

"If I can't also destroy myself, _yes_ ," Jim whispered, bending down to Sherlock so that he was speaking right against Sherlock's mouth. "Not so different from when I was alive though." Jim hissed a laugh, turning bitterness to humour. 

Jim laid his body down on top of Sherlock, feet digging into the carpet to prevent Sherlock from throwing him off. They pressed together in all the right places again, but this time Jim didn't dare let Sherlock's hands go in order for his own to wander. Instead, he bared his teeth and latched on to the side of Sherlock's neck in mirror to what Sherlock had done before. 

Sherlock's eyes closed and he grimaced, struggling even when he knew it wouldn't do any good. He'd taken enough Judo to be keenly aware of leverage points, and right now he had none. Unless and until Jim moved and gave him control of his arms and legs, he was pinned.

Sherlock cried out when pressure at his neck turned into sharp pain, and he felt an answering drip of warmth. 

Jim's familiar laughter never came.

Instead, Sherlock heard a low, almost purring, moan from the other man, muffled by Sherlock's own skin. He felt Jim's tongue lick over the split skin under his closed mouth, and then smear it with a shake of his head. 

Jim lifted, coming back into view. His mouth was painted red. By the amount of it, Sherlock was sure to have a very angry looking wound on the side of his throat. 

Jim dove down and kissed him, taste sharp with Sherlock's own blood. 

Sherlock was torn by several conflicting emotions. He wanted to pull away, back into the safety of empty space, where he couldn't be hurt because no one and nothing could touch him. He was aware of the stinging, sharp pain at the side of his neck and the fact that Jim had put that wound there.

Another part of him tasted blood and opened on instinct. Jim didn't hesitate to take advantage. A strange tongue slid into his mouth, hot and unfamiliar, and Sherlock went still. The taste of blood was even stronger like this, and Sherlock opened his eyes only to find the same dark eyes that had haunted his thoughts staring back, closer than they'd ever gotten before.

Jim drew their arms down without breaking the kiss. His grip was still sure, but it was a more comfortable position for both of them. Even though they were lined up right where Jim needed them to be, he didn't grind his hips down. His weight alone was enough to create subtle friction between them. Jim hummed into Sherlock's mouth, dark eyelashes lowering, but never closing. 

Finally, he broke away. He didn't go far, giving Sherlock just the barest hint of space. "If I let go, think you can manage not to run?"

"...that depends on what you're going to do." Sherlock was reeling, but he hadn't forgotten what had happened thus far. Jim's moods were extremely changeable. Just because the kiss had been admittedly pleasant didn't mean Jim wouldn't decide to go back to grinding against him, or biting, or even murder. Things with Janine had never gone past this point, even at the height of the charade. His false girlfriend had been willing to take no for an answer. Sherlock wasn't at all certain that Jim would stop if asked.

"Just a little of what you so graciously offered," Jim whispered back. One side of his mouth curled. He dared to let one of Sherlock's wrists free in order to run his hand down Sherlock's arm, over his shoulder, and down his side before reaching back up again. "You're so nervous," Jim said softly, "Make me happy, Sherlock, I haven't been happy in such a long time." His words were pleading and his eyes as soft as any of his sweet personas, but his lips were smiling. 

Sherlock took a shuddering breath. His skin tingled all over. His chances of survival increased the happier Jim was, and the chain experiment proved that he didn't have complete control. He couldn't just trick Jim into a trap and keep him locked somewhere in here. The criminal would break out, find him in the waking world, and squeeze his heart until he was dead.

"Of course I'm bloody well nervous," Sherlock retorted once he’d gotten his bearings. He hadn't done this before, had walled off any inclination for it, and now he was stuck dealing with a devil who might demand _anything_.

Jim's smile broke into a grin and any innocence that had been in his eyes before was gone. "Then let's start small, shall we?" He kissed Sherlock's lips and raised himself up. Seeing that Sherlock wasn't immediately throwing him off, he settled his weight over Sherlock's hips. Hands trailing down Sherlock's long torso, Jim bit his lower lip in what looked more like a tease than any nervousness on his part. With careful pressure, Jim rolled his own hips, and there was that friction again, scratchy through their clothes now for all the long minutes they'd been doing this. But still....

Sherlock quivered underneath Jim's body, but he didn’t fight back. Not yet. The feeling was different than anything he'd encountered before. Janine had sat on his lap as part of the play at dating, of course, but she hadn't pushed the issue, and Sherlock had never been hard when it happened. He was rarely hard, _period_. Sherlock had considered it a blessing and a testament to his power of will that, after a brief awkward period during his adolescence, he'd managed to shut such impulses away.

Jim leaned closer again and touched their lips together, and Sherlock had to admit that…these things hadn't been as firmly walled off as he'd thought.

Sounds of their breathing filled the air. Sherlock could feel Jim smiling against him as their mouths met, and the slippery slide of skin on skin, hot and wet, was a subtle reminder that he could be asking Sherlock to do far more. Yet Jim kept their rocking slow and left his hands out of it, instead entangling them in Sherlock's hair until one of them slipped down to press over Sherlock's heart. Jim was timing his pulse. Sherlock's heartbeat was rapid, but…not entirely from fear. 

Jim was dangerous, and highly intelligent, and Sherlock had always found both of those qualities attractive. A glance told him that Jim had already figured out as much; his smile had taken on a sly curve again.

Eventually Sherlock flinched, and it had nothing to do with fear. The friction from their clothing had persisted long enough to be uncomfortable without something to ease it.

Jim pulled away and lifted his hips up. Reaching one hand down between them, he rested his palm over Sherlock's groin. He didn't have to rub. Just pressure was enough, dark eyes locked on Sherlock's face all the while. And then that hand crept up, unfastened the button at Sherlock's flies, pulled the zipper down, and slipped inside. 

Jim seemed to drink in the mix of emotions radiating from Sherlock. The unease, the fear, the conflicting desire. Like it was all flowing into him, he shuddered when his palm met the hardness of Sherlock's erection through one last slim layer of fabric. 

Sherlock gasped, and his hips jerked up in spite of himself. 

Touch was markedly different when it wasn't from his own hand. His mind didn't know what to expect or when, and this was doubly true for Jim. The criminal might decide to give only pleasure, or suddenly inflict pain. It wouldn't take much effort, not with such vulnerable parts of Sherlock’s body.

Jim nuzzled his nose into Sherlock's neck, carefully avoiding the bite until he licked softly over it with the flat of his tongue. It stung, but only a little, as though Jim had heard Sherlock's thoughts. He had in the waking world, but their conversations here indicated that he was no longer able to. 

Perhaps in Sherlock's mind, they were on more equal footing. Even if it was _Sherlock's_ mind. 

Jim came up to look into Sherlock's eyes again, and that was when he could tell Jim meant to take this further. His hand slipped free of Sherlock's underwear, but Jim leaned down, spit into his palm, and then his hand was back, this time slipping under the waistband and meeting flesh. 

Sherlock jerked like he'd been shocked with electricity. His hands automatically rose to push Jim off of him, but instead of shoving, they grabbed handfuls of the man's shirt. Sherlock was wide-eyed and, if he had to be honest with himself, frightened, but this wasn't too far yet. He could weather this if that's what it took to survive.

Jim's hand tightened and slid, and a whimper escaped Sherlock's throat. Jim's eyes, his whole expression, widened with delight, Sherlock's reaction lighting him up from inside. "Oh yes...." Jim whispered. "That's it." 

Sherlock strained against him, gripping hard to his shirt and ensuring that Jim couldn't move if he'd wanted to, neither closer nor farther away. Sherlock's breath came in shaky hitches now and Jim bent down as close as Sherlock’s hands would allow to Sherlock's cheek, just to hear it better. His rhythm was slow and strong, covering every inch of Sherlock, up and down, methodically undoing him. 

Sherlock couldn't think, and that was exactly what terrified him about this. He was putting himself entirely at the mercy of another person, trusting Jim not just with his physical health, but not to tear him apart from the inside out after shutting his brain down. 

Letting someone close was everything he'd been taught against, not just in words but through experiences. He'd stifled the need for release, the need for another person, and rerouted that energy into more constructive things. Drugs. Murder. Things that left him in control.

"Ssss..." Sherlock wanted Jim to stop. He couldn't keep doing this. The thought of coming apart in front of anyone was terrifying, but especially _this_ man. Jim would laugh and then rip his heart out.

"Shhhh," Jim whispered, chest pressing into Sherlock's hands to get that much closer. "It's okay, shh." He sounded so pleasant, even used his free hand to stroke against Sherlock's temple. Jim was so good at it, he might have fooled anyone else. Eyes soft and promising everything would be okay if Sherlock just let himself slip away into the rushing pleasure, that he would be here, safe and sound when it was all over. Jim's lips pressed against Sherlock's cheek on one side and his fingers stroked errant strands on the other while his palm sped up below. 

Sherlock's body was quickly overriding his mind. His breathing came in pants. Not even Jim's presence at his side was dissuading anymore; Sherlock knew he couldn't believe Jim's expression or words, _knew_ that a monster had him in its claws even as it was murmuring sweet reassurances, and even the fear that provoked was not enough to jolt him into action. Heat pooled at the base of his spine, and when Jim's hand twisted, Sherlock arched and started to climax.

His mouth fell open and Jim was suddenly there, covering it with his own and taking the cry that came muffled between them. His hand didn't stop. Sherlock's hips jerked. His stomach tightened. Jim flattened his body over Sherlock's just to feel him lose control, but he never released his hold. He was a dark and looming presence every time Sherlock's eyes opened, hovering right there. 

With Jim swallowing his cries and pressed against him like that, Sherlock felt like the man was trying to eat his soul, or at least a piece of it. 

Jim coaxed him through it all the way to the end, and beyond. Sherlock's stomach felt hot and sticky, and lethargy invaded his limbs, and suddenly everything became exquisitely oversensitive to the touch. Jim's hand hadn't stopped its motions yet, and Sherlock began crying out and jerking in earnest.

He felt Jim's lips curl against his mouth until the man atop him finally stilled his rhythm. He only moved his hand away after one last squeeze, sending Sherlock's eyes wincing shut. 

When he opened them again, Jim had pulled back just enough to bring the hand up between them, its fingers painted with creamy fluid. With the light dancing in his eyes, he drew one into his mouth, letting his tongue slide visibly up the side. 

Sherlock watched in horrified fascination. He couldn't imagine why anyone would want to do that. From everything he'd heard, the taste wasn't pleasant, and the act of consumption was typically associated with humiliation and submission by the general public. Jim was clearly neither.

Warmth had sunk into Sherlock's bones. He vaguely remembered this from his younger days when he'd briefly experimented with himself. Sherlock knew that the concept of virginity was meaningless beyond societal constructs, but he was still a bit disturbed that _this_ was what constituted his first time with another person. A first time he'd never expected to have.

When Jim was finished with his little show, he reached down, tucked Sherlock back into his trousers and zipped them up as good as new. He was methodical about it, each step as deliberate as the last, leaving time for Sherlock to both catch his breath and wonder what was to come next. 

Jim curled up still half atop him, looking very pleased with himself. "There now, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

Color lit up Sherlock's cheeks. Jim had to be mad. He'd nearly killed him out of spite and jealousy for managing to survive, bit him, made him think that the price for living was to endure rape... and then proceeded to pleasure only Sherlock and ingest the results. Sherlock had seen some of the results of deviant sexual interests, but he hadn't expected Jim to be satisfied with this. "...that was it, that was what you wanted?"

Jim's eyes glittered in the light of the hallway. His smile lengthened, just waiting for Sherlock's disbelief to falter, to feel him grow tense beneath Jim again. 

"Well, apart from a little reciprocation, yes." Jim's forefinger, now clean, drew a line down Sherlock's cheek, eyes lowering to watch it move as if he were imagining Sherlock's mouth in quite another way. "I think we could use a little change of scenery, don't you?" The hallway was suddenly gone, washed away by white sheets and a bed spread out beneath them. From the look of the room, Sherlock could have guessed they were in an upscale London town home, yet the details were bare. 

Sherlock's eyes darted around the room, cataloguing what was there. Nothing that was useable to escape or fight back, but thankfully neither were there any obvious instruments for torture. It was utterly normal, if richer than what Sherlock was used to. Much richer; his body was sinking into the mattress beneath him in a way that his bed in 221B could never match.

"Reciprocation?" Sherlock imagined that this meant Jim wanted... to be touched. Sherlock tried to hide the images and emotions that thought summoned. He was, on the whole, far more willing to touch Jim with his hands than to be touched, and still extremely curious. Just not curious enough to want to replicate the way Jim had cleaned his hand off.

"Yes Sherlock," Jim indulged him without comment on how Sherlock had just made him repeat himself. His finger ended its trail and Jim moved to flop down on the bed next to Sherlock's lankier frame. One of Jim's legs was still tangled in Sherlock’s though, and Jim didn't seem very keen on allowing him any more space than he'd gotten thus far. 

Jim tucked an arm behind his head and spread his legs, a very unsubtle hint at what he expected. 

Sherlock was familiar with the human body, but mostly in terms of dead specimens. Corpses generally weren't the sort of things one caressed for pleasure, not unless someone was unusually wired for that sort of thing. Sherlock had a general idea of where the pleasurable nerve endings in the body were and, at the very least, could simply mimic what had been done to him.

He didn't meet Jim's eyes. He didn't want the man to guess that he'd thought about something like this before. Not _quite_ this, exactly, but the chance to examine Jim closer. The body often gave clues about the mind, and Sherlock had been curious ever since Moriarty had stepped into the spotlight as himself.

Sherlock swallowed. 

Rather than immediately seeking the fastenings of Jim's trousers, he turned his attention upward. His fingertips began tracing the edges of Jim's face, pressing lightly to relax the muscles beneath Jim’s eyes and across his brow, to create pleasure. Sherlock’s eyes followed his hands, absorbing as many fine details as he could. Jim's dark eyelashes lowered, but never quite closed. 

As dead as he was, he was anything but a corpse. 

A small smile played over Jim’s mouth and he lifted his head for Sherlock's touch, subtly leaning into it like Sherlock needed encouragement. Jim's shoulders shifted, burrowing down into the soft covers to make himself comfortable. He radiated satisfaction. 

His skin was warm. The steady beat of his pulse thrummed beneath it. He was by no means a muscular man, but he had a certain leanness to his body, even under the rumpled suit. Sherlock could also tell that underneath all those layers, Jim was still as aroused as he had been when they'd begun this endeavour. 

Sherlock touched every inch of Jim's face, then trailed down to his neck, pausing for a moment to feel his pulse. Jim was still content and pliant, and Sherlock wondered just how many people had seen the man like this before. He couldn't imagine many. Not who survived afterward, at any rate.

Sherlock stroked his fingers through Jim's hair, then turned his gaze thoughtfully downward. His hands drifted to the buttons of Jim's shirt and began to undo them. Jim hadn't disrobed him this much, but Sherlock doubted he'd object.

From the tugging at the corners of Jim's mouth, he didn't. He even lifted himself up enough to help Sherlock remove his jacket and the rest of his shirt, leaving him bare from the waist up. Sherlock's assumption had been correct. Jim was thin, but not unhealthily so, which was a miracle in itself. It might have been attributed to whether he was able to alter his appearance in this state had Sherlock not remembered the footage of Jim smashing through security to get at the royal crown in nothing more than a tshirt and jeans. 

Jim laid himself back down and shimmied his hips suggestively. 

"We'll get to that." If Sherlock was going to be given free rein to explore without violent repercussions, he was going to take advantage of it. His hands swept over Jim's shoulders, then down his arms one at a time before turning his attention to Jim's chest. The smaller man was trim and smooth, not overly muscular but not soft either. A few scars marked his skin here and there, pale and nearly invisible but for the change in texture. One gave Sherlock pause, and his fingers traced over a familiar line.

"What did you get into?" Sherlock knew, of course, who'd inflicted this mark. Or thought he knew. He'd seen it's like before.

Jim followed Sherlock's line of sight thoughtfully, as though he had to remember. 

"Ah that. Your brother dearest." 

Jim didn't sound disturbed. Rather, somewhat aloof, but Sherlock could tell it was intentional. Very similar to the tone Mycroft often took with him, in fact. 

"You remember, though I don't think you were ever privy to the details. He and I had such good times together down in that little bunker of his, top secret of course." 

Sherlock's eyes shuttered, and he nodded. If Jim didn't already know, he wasn't going to enlighten him.

Sherlock rubbed his thumb over the scar one last time before continuing. He stroked down Jim's sides and came to a rest at the small furrows on either side of his hips.

Jim's interest was still very much present, straining against the restrictive fabric of his trousers. Sherlock glanced up to find himself being watched intently. Jim's small smile was back.

Sherlock took a deep breath and started on the fastenings.

Jim bit his lip. His hips gave another little shimmy of interest, but he stilled them before it startled Sherlock away. With Sherlock bending over him like he was, avoiding more contact than necessary through his position at Jim's side, Jim was very nearly like a slab of meat on a table. Except that every inch of him was thrumming way with life. What they were doing could at least be termed an experiment, however. 

Jim's eyes fell to Sherlock's hands, watching his trousers slowly open.

Sherlock tugged them down, then hooked his fingers around the waistband of Jim's pants and pulled on them. Flushed pink flesh sprang free and came to a rest against Jim's stomach. The trail of dark hair running down from his navel only served to highlight it more.

Sherlock froze for a moment. He knew he had to keep going, but he'd never done this to another person before, and his own self-focused experience was extremely sparse. He felt nervous again, for some reason he couldn't quite fathom, but he licked his lips and tried to concentrate. Sherlock's hand reached forward and wrapped around Jim's cock, and he risked a glance upward.

Jim's eyes had turned to black slits, but they were still watching him. His mouth now formed a little ring of arousal. Jim was obviously trying to restrain himself from moving his hips again, wanting instead to see what Sherlock would do. There was, however, one thing he insisted upon. Reaching out, Jim tugged at Sherlock's waist and arm, moving him from Jim's side to instead sit atop Jim's thighs. From that position the hard flesh in Sherlock's hand hardened further, and he could _feel_ it. 

Sherlock's gaze hadn't fixed on Jim's cock, but his face. He could feel Jim's interest spike as soon as he was sitting atop the smaller man, but his expression was _far_ more interesting. There was a chance he was faking some of his reactions, but Sherlock again doubted it, and that made him wonder. His fingers tightened and he slowly stroked from base to tip, watching Jim intently.

Jim's head fell back. A breath of air left his chest like he'd been punched. 

Sherlock felt Jim's hips pump up into his hand, seeking more. Hands fell to grip at Sherlock's knees and he could see the flex of sinew in Jim's shoulders as he held on. Dark eyes opened, looking up to meet Sherlock's calculating ones and Jim broadcast his desires without words.

_More._

Sherlock paused to take in the sight. After a moment he released Jim and spit into his hand, mimicking what Jim had done earlier. The tactile sensation was pleasant enough, warm and silken, but having another man's cock in his hand wasn't titillating. What _was_ was the way Jim reacted.

His fingers wrapped around Jim again and he watched the smaller man tilt his hips up to meet him. The hands clutching at his legs tightened and Jim's lips parted. For some reason, that gap was fascinating, creating a combination of lines that drew Sherlock's eye like a fine painting.

He wondered whether Jim was truly losing control, or if this was merely show.

"I can see you watching me, you know," Jim breathed. As though Sherlock could have forgotten. But that statement didn't diminish any of the pleasure washing over Jim's features. Even his voice had gone thick with the sensation. He made a point of rocking his hips into Sherlock's hand, up on the down stroke, causing his eyes to flutter and for the spike of pleasure to part his lips just a little farther. It was real. But that didn't mean Jim wasn't putting on a show. 

"I know." The idea that this was at least partially false diminished the power of it a bit, but certain physical phenomena couldn't be faked. Not without chemical assistance, at any rate, and those were beyond reach. 

Sherlock had seen this before. Not participated, of course, but it was easy enough to find videos of practically anything on the internet, and some of his visits to various dens of inequity had involved ignoring activities going on in convenient shadowy nooks. He'd never found it interesting before. Perhaps because it had never been someone he had a connection with, if one could call it that.

Sherlock's hand tightened and he stroked a little faster. He wanted to see Jim lose control. Not a false pretense at it, but for real.

Another shaky breath drew from Jim's lips and his head fell back to the pillow. 

"Oh _Sherlock_ , we should have really done this when I was alive. I never expected you to be so enthusiastic." That wasn’t true. Jim had orchestrated this situation, after all, and Sherlock was nowhere near as enthusiastic as a lover should be, but it did indicate that Jim could tell he wasn't completely repulsed either. 

The lean muscles in Jim's stomach began to tighten with the pleasure, arching his hips for the perfect angle in Sherlock's grip, and once again Jim began to bite his lower lip. 

"I might be more, if you could take it upon yourself to stop putting on a false act." Reactions were what interested Sherlock. Anything that gave him more information and insight into how Moriarty worked. His current act was interesting, but too laced with coy positioning and paper-thin provocations. The facade was undoubtedly effective against people Jim might have encountered before, but it was a manipulation while hiding all of himself behind a character. Sherlock couldn't trust any of the data he was getting in return. 

His hand slowed. He could tease just as well as Jim could.

Jim's teeth bared at the pace, but his eyes sharpened at Sherlock's request. "You don't want an act? Then get down here." His lips curled malevolently and he was lifting himself up, grabbing Sherlock by the front of his shirt, and jerking him down to hunch over Jim. He had to all but lay atop the criminal and his hand had to shift in order not to twist the wrong way, which Jim didn't seem to care about because he still slid himself through Sherlock's hand with a buck of his hips. Jim's mouth met Sherlock's and Jim’s hands with sharp nails clung to Sherlock's back. 

This both was and wasn't what Sherlock had wanted. It gave him improved insight, but at a cost.

Sherlock flinched when Jim's nails dug through the fabric of his shirt. 

Jim had dropped one control for another. Instead of a pretty act, Sherlock got aggression and a show of dominance instead. Sherlock felt Jim's hips thrust upwards and try to take control of the rhythm. He made a noise of protest against Jim's mouth. His hand loosened so the smaller man had little friction to work with.

Jim hissed a growl between them, arm tightening around the back of Sherlock's neck so he couldn't move away. "What's the matter, don't like what you see?" His words were spoken into Sherlock's mouth. "I don't open up for just anyone you know. I need a little _incentive_." 

Sherlock could feel Jim's ankles twining with his own to lock them together just a little bit more. Jim's eyes flashed up at him and there was a spark of anger in them. 

Sherlock was still angry, too, and bitter about being forced into this, but Jim's reciprocal anger gave him a theory. Nothing very solid, just the vaguest whispers of an idea, but it was something to test. Jim's anger was more solid, more authentic, more _real_ than the coquette persona, and real was always preferable.

Jim wouldn't be fooled by a mask, even if it had equaled his own.

Sherlock searched for something he could use, something true that he could dangle in front of the other man. He latched onto the emotions that were tied into several older memories - the despair when he'd been undercover that had turned to loneliness, sending him back into his mind palace again and again, not just to watch the construct of John that he'd kept safely hidden away in 221B, but the man whose work he had been trying to unravel. The chained construct he'd sat and conversed with for hours, out of need, then curiosity, and later a twisted sort of comfort. The false Moriarty had always been glad to see him and emotive of such in his own way.

Sherlock dragged that loneliness, curiosity, and compassion to the surface, putting himself back into the state of mind that dominated him when he'd still been undercover. He slid his free hand beneath Jim's neck, ignoring the congealed stickiness from his persistent wound, and paused just long enough to let Jim have a good look. When he leaned down to touch their mouths together again. His hand started to stroke a little faster.

Jim stilled for a second. Sherlock could feel him stiffen, see his eyes widen. He hadn't expected Sherlock to look at him like that. Sherlock had successfully thrown him off guard, and that in itself said something of how invested Jim Moriarty truly was in him. If haunting him beyond the grave wasn’t enough already. 

When the attentions Sherlock gave him didn't stop, Jim pulled him away by the back of his hair. Not far, just enough to look at Sherlock a little longer, trying to decide what had changed, if the intimacy Sherlock was projecting was real. In that moment, Jim looked more haunted than Sherlock had ever seen him before, even as Richard Brook. 

"What's the matter, don't like what you see?" Sherlock wasn't above a bit of pettiness, but his parroting of Jim's words didn't have quite the same sting. He couldn't mock like this, not if he hoped to retain his hold on the emotions he'd pulled from old memories. His eyes searched Jim's face, drinking in his reaction and trying to deduce what had caused it. 

Jim refused to let go of him and break the stillness they'd found. 

"You've never looked at me like this before, Sherlock," he whispered, challenging Sherlock to either admit to what he was projecting as a newfound appreciation for Jim, or deny it. It was obvious that Jim was having trouble telling whether it was an act or not. Sherlock's memories and experiences with the Moriarty he'd created were real, which meant he had, in a way, become somewhat invested in Jim, too. Back when they'd played the game, Jim had suspected it as well, but events had moved too fast to be sure, and Sherlock had found a way out. 

"You were too busy doing things that pushed me away." Sherlock wasn't quite able to hold back a surge of anger, but it didn't destroy the rest of the emotions he was projecting. It merely gave them a heated, bitter edge. "I never got the chance to know you any better, because you threatened the small bit of happiness I'd found in the world when the game just wasn't enough. And then you died. And all I had left was guesswork. Not even enough to make a poor, stable copy, but that simulacrum was all that I had. The only real company I had for two years, if such things count as real."

Hardness crept back into Jim's gaze. "Life isn't easy." Jim's lip curled, finding a source of bitter humour. "Even when you're dead." 

Some of Jim's wall had come back up, but he paused to just look at Sherlock again, to trail his hand through the back of Sherlock's hair. He gave off the sense, however, that in spite of his words, Jim would have never allowed this much of himself to slip through in life. It was...difficult to say. He'd come close in the end, on that roof, to being open with Sherlock, and then he'd abruptly put that to an end. 

Sherlock's eyes searched him and Jim's lowered, focus briefly turning inward. "Come now, what would you have done with another boring little friend? I could never have been that for you, anyway."

"I don't think you could be categorized as ‘boring’ by any stretch of the imagination," Sherlock replied flatly. "I'm not certain what one does with friends, or people in general. I've only ever had the one." Even John, in the end, hadn't stayed. They were still friends, but it was different. Part of his life truly had ended on that rooftop - he'd come back a different person, and John hadn't quite come back at all.

"I have little-to-no experience with people other than on a functional basis. They provide food, transport, and other services, and occasionally some of them try to be clever and I get a distraction for a while. It's a bit futile to try to guess what you _could_ have been, because that's impossible to know now." Sherlock paused, a bit of caution creeping into his gaze. "More pertinent is what you could be now. Much of which depends on your choices."

"Ah _yes_ ," Jim hissed, "because you and I both are so good at these things." A dark humor was beginning to take him. "We'll make a truce, you and I. They’ll call you Mad Holmes, living up in that flat all alone, muttering to yourself on cases, and I'll be the chipper little helper no one else can see. I should have used that for Richard's Story Time. It's rather good." Jim's grip around the back of Sherlock's neck suddenly tightened. "But I believe you have something to finish, first." He canted his hips. 

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes. Anger wouldn't help him in this. Jim was trying to get a rise out of him, and responding to it would only make things worse. He ignored the insistent slide against his palm for a moment and tried reaching backwards again. Back to older emotions.

When Sherlock opened his eyes again, he wasn't permitting himself to think of the threats Moriarty held over him, or the way he'd been backed into a corner and touched against his will. He remembered bizarre conversations held in a Russian safehouse, tucked into the back room of an Egyptian hammam, or freezing stowed away in a cargo hold. He spit into his hand again and resumed his stroking.

Less than a minute later Jim was panting. Sherlock had not retreated back into himself, and Jim _noticed_. Like the way he'd met and matched, not mimicked, Sherlock's anger before, Sherlock's genuine interest was now tugging at him, keeping Jim from trying to lure Sherlock in with teases and taunts.

After another minute, it became obvious that Sherlock would have never seen him like this in life. Jim clung to Sherlock now as literally as he clung to him in spirit. 

Sherlock understood now, in a way, that Jim was wounded. Not physically, but in ways that had him striking out, taunting, and being as barbed as possible so that no one could get close. It was an attitude Sherlock could understand very well, but not the cause. He himself had simply chosen a different way of achieving the same end.

If this wasn't all a delusion from illness, they were stuck together, for better or worse. They could either learn to come to terms with the situation and make the most of it, or they'd come to a messy end, which would likely be Sherlock's death by Jim's hand. It was with this in mind that Sherlock looked down, saw portions of Jim reaching back, and felt a glimmer of a connection. 

His hand sped up.

Jim gasped. His grip in Sherlock's hair nearly faltered, so his other hand came up as well, grounding him with Sherlock, and finally, _finally_ he seemed to be letting go. 

He was there with Sherlock, the Sherlock he had built up in his imagination just as Sherlock was there with the Jim he'd built in return, neither of them having known each other long enough in real life to manage any better, all deductive skills aside. Sherlock could tell that had been what Jim wanted at the end of his life, but it was something he would have never been able to have. 

'Moriarty' was more important. 

"I'd never thought to have a partner before," Jim whispered. It wouldn't work, even if he had wanted it, they both knew it. But Jim had nothing left now. 

Jim's honest admission was enough to get a smile from Sherlock. A weak one, barely there, but a smile nonetheless. 

He'd tried having a partner before, and it hadn't worked, but in many ways John hadn't been able to match Sherlock. He’d been strong enough, solid enough, but in different ways. He'd wanted danger paired with the trappings of an ordinary life, and that was something Sherlock could not give him. 

Now he was left with Jim, creatures ill fit to the world as it stood, attempting to fit each other. 

Sherlock leaned in and kissed Jim again. If this truce was to work, they'd both have to try, and he wanted to ensure Jim had sufficient motivation.

He felt Jim return it, felt the man's hips begin to buck harder with more focused thrusts. As much as they'd lowered their guards for this encounter, it was difficult to say whether a truce between them could in reality last. Jim wanted Sherlock, that was obvious, but whether he trusted Sherlock was another matter, and the same vice versa. Jim had been out of control with rage and spite when Sherlock first found him. He at least seemed to have a better grip on himself now. 

Jim's legs parted. His hands roamed down to Sherlock's back and pulled him closer, enough so that they were pressed flush together and Sherlock had to lean a little to still be able to stroke. Jim's breath was hitching. 

Sherlock was still entirely clothed, but he didn't feel more powerful. He felt like he needed barriers to even begin to approach being on an equal playing field. He could feel the heat from his body through the layers, pressed together as they were. Jim's hips canted again, and Sherlock was mortified to realize his own body was responding again.

Jim must have felt it, too, because the mouth against Sherlock's suddenly gasped and pulled into a smile. One of his hands reached down between them, catching on Sherlock's wrist and stilling it, staving off the impending release long enough for Jim to grapple with the flies of Sherlock's trousers and worm his own hand inside. Dark eyes and a sickly sweet smile met Sherlock's. 

Jim didn't say anything, but he began stroking. 

Sherlock's gaze turned away and his cheeks flushed. His self-enforced celibacy now forced into termination, his body seemed intent on releasing years of pent-up frustration. His mind didn't want to follow. Sherlock knew there was nothing _wrong_ with sex, per se, but he'd spent so long convincing himself that he couldn't and shouldn't have it, didn't want it, that getting touched like that made him want to shy away. Particularly when it was accompanied by a predator's smile. "I thought this time was reciprocation," he murmured.

"And this isn't?" Jim whispered, chasing Sherlock's eyes. Predatory was Jim's natural state it seemed. In spite of Sherlock's reluctance, he was quickly hardening in Jim's hand and it wasn't long before Jim guided Sherlock's hand back to his own erection with his other. Both of them worked together, Jim pausing only to wet his fingers and make the slide easier on Sherlock. His other hand drew beads of sweat from Sherlock's temple and smiled at his handiwork. 

Sherlock's own breathing started to grow ragged. He still refused to meet Jim's eyes. Hypocritical, perhaps, given how he'd entreated the other man to open up to him, but his comfort level just wasn't there. Sherlock opened his mouth, intending to protest that he'd thought he'd be safe from being touched any more that night, then shut it again once he realized that Jim might decide to take offense. He rephrased. "...I thought it meant taking turns."

"Oh no, much better like this," Jim huffed. His words were disjointed, interspersed with breaths and hitches and pants. Sherlock could feel Jim's body straining against him, muscles tightening, hips beginning to jerk a frantic rhythm. 

Jim was coming apart. Just as Sherlock wanted. 

If he didn't look, he wasn't going to get to see it. And Jim wanted him to, pulling on Sherlock's hair to wrench him to meet Jim's gaze. 

Sherlock had stared down murderers. Serial murderers, even. He'd dealt with corpses in various states of dismemberment and decomposition, trod in dangerous places, even jumped off a building. Looking at one's sexual partner shouldn't have been a daunting task, but tension crept through Sherlock's limbs. Jim surely felt it, just as he saw Sherlock swallow hard. Jim's fingers tugged on his hair again, and Sherlock reluctantly looked up.

Jim's pupils were blown so wide Sherlock couldn't distinguish them from his irises. His mouth had fallen open. His head had tipped back, but he was fighting to stay upright enough to really look at Sherlock in return.

Their eyes met, and Jim's hand clenched. 

Suddenly hot liquid coated Sherlock's fingers, slickening the way and Jim jerked in his grasp, never breaking contact, barely losing his own rhythm, but the look on his face.... It was like he'd burned the image of this moment, of Sherlock hovering over him, looking down in fear and lust combined with the pulsing sensation of climax. Jim looked like he’d scorched the moment forever in his mind. 

Jim had always been striking, but he was gorgeous like this, ethereal and fallen. Sherlock was riveted in place, unable to look away. He barely even minded the mess coating his hand. 

A shiver ran up his spine. Jim's eyes reminded him of a void, an endless blackness that consumed everything within reach, everything that it could draw into itself. Sherlock wondered if that was his inevitable end.

With the way Jim clutched at his hair and the way the pace of his hand sped up, it was very likely he intended it to be. He was gasping, trying to catch his breath and still not lose his hold on Sherlock. His teeth clicked together and he growled, bringing Sherlock down to meet him, as close as they could get. He nuzzled Sherlock's nose, breathed into his mouth, mapped every color in his eyes and hair of his brows and demanded that Sherlock do the same for him in return. 

Sherlock was panting, quivering until the assault, but he couldn't seem to reach the edge. His arm finally gave out and he rested completely atop Jim, trying to catch his breath. "...I can't. It's too soon," he groaned. Jim's hand hadn't paused and it was driving him mad, friction building up pressure that didn't seem to have any options for release. "I can't."

Jim pressed at his shoulder. At first it seemed like Jim was trying to push him off, but then he rolled himself with Sherlock, the sheets tangling beneath them, the cushions sinking below, until Sherlock was lying on his back and Jim was the one above him. He didn't stay there for long. 

After giving Sherlock a wicked little grin, he slid down, and down even farther, until he was positioned right over Sherlock's arousal. The grin never left his face, even when Jim's pink tongue darted out to lick at the tip. 

Sherlock's cry caught in his throat. The jolt of pleasure from Jim's tongue was accompanied by an even larger amount of fear. Somehow it seemed more dangerous to have the teeth of a changeable madman near his cock than near his jugular. Jim did it again and Sherlock nearly scooted away from him, trying to crawl backwards only to have the shorter man pin his hips back down. 

"Shhh," Jim admonished. "I'm not going to hurt you." Even though he said it with a devil's smile. When Sherlock was still just long enough, one of Jim's hands moved back to continue its stroking rhythm, his mouth lingering just behind the head of Sherlock's cock. He licked again, his time from the base up. 

Sherlock quivered underneath Jim's hands, wide-eyed and gasping. Clearly, whatever he'd expected this particular activity to feel like was far off the mark. His pupils were completely blown and fixed on Jim's face, and Sherlock braced himself every time he saw Jim open his mouth for another lick. After a few moments Jim's hand tilted his cock and the man's lips closed around the tip. The look of sheer disbelief on Sherlock's face prompted Jim to grin again. Sherlock's voice was so strained and breathy that it was barely audible. 

"...oh..."

It wasn’t immediately obvious Jim was grinning, but Sherlock could see the smile in every inch of his body if not his mouth. His mouth that was currently sinking, sucking, a slow and excruciating heat, down over Sherlock's cock. It took Jim a long time to break eye contact, but when he finally did, he set to his task. 

Beneath his closed mouth, his tongue slid up the underside. He pulled up, gripping with one hand at the base and giving a little twist of suction at the tip, and seemed wholeheartedly bent on driving Sherlock mad. 

Sherlock struggled to keep his eyes focused on Jim. It seemed beyond dangerous to let him out of his sight, even when all his eyes wanted to do was close against the sensation. 

It only increased the torment to watch. Dark fringe trailed down over Jim's forehead, drawing even more attention to the rest of his delicate features and giving him an almost boyish cast. Sherlock watched himself disappear between Jim's lips and found that his higher level thinking was, to his horror, shutting down again. His hands bunched in the covers and he tried to remember to breathe.

Nails clawed at Sherlock’s hips, digging into the supple flesh just below. He could feel it even through the fabric of his trousers and especially where they had pulled down just enough for Jim's fingertips to catch. His whole body moved into it, shimmying up almost on his knees to keep hold of Sherlock's legs, trapping them under him. The more he took, the more he seemed in control, wringing pleasure out of Sherlock. Consuming him. Like the very predator Sherlock had likened him to all night. 

Sherlock's hips tilted up on instinct. He didn't get very far, not with Jim holding him down, but the smaller man certainly noticed. Jim's muffled laugh turned into torturous vibration. Sherlock's eyes finally closed and his head fell back against the mattress.

Sherlock felt like he was drowning, or getting eaten alive. Perhaps both at once. Shocks of pleasure ran through him and gave him a new insight as to why people indulged in sexual behaviors and decisions he'd previously only vaguely understood. 

His shirt was jerked up and away from his hips and one of Jim's hands slid up his side, thumb digging in along the way just to feel the quiver of Sherlock's flesh. Jim never relented. Every stroke he squeezed just a little too much, just a little like he wanted to suck the very life out of Sherlock. The swirl of his tongue on the end made obscene sounds. Jim was wet and hot and _alive_ , even though it was impossible. The underside of his teeth dragged lightly up the bottom of Sherlock's cock, just to bring him back to Jim again.

Sherlock's focus narrowed down. He lost track of the details of their mundane surroundings, or the truth of where they actually were. His body was perched right on the edge of torment, so close to completion, yet held back by lingering fatigue from earlier and the rough hints of violence Jim insisted on displaying. Every time a dissonant threat of pain rippled through him, Sherlock was reminded of just what was happening and who was between his legs. Both a person and an activity he'd never imagined permitting.

One of Sherlock's hands lifted itself from the bedside covers and tangled fingers into dark hair.

Equally dark lashes raised and Jim met his gaze. Something about Sherlock must have caught him because Jim's pace slowed. His tongue became more languid, and more _focused_. His touches softened. Jim could read pain on Sherlock's face, not physical pain, but real all the same, and for once he seemed to be in a forgiving mood. 

His hands slid down Sherlock's belly to join at the base of his cock and Jim turned his mouth to sucking the tip before he sank down again. A quick, almost delicate rhythm followed, but his dark eyes never stopped peeking up at Sherlock, and Sherlock could never forget who was really there with him. 

Climax was sudden, unexpected, and almost violently intense. One moment Sherlock was hypnotized, locking gazes with the criminal, and before he could utter a warning his entire body tightened up with release. He shuddered, and belatedly realised that the odd, desperate keening sound that filled the room must have come from his own throat. 

Jim watched him with an unusual intensity throughout, until Sherlock finally collapsed into a boneless heap against the mattress. He could feel his heart pounding.

Then Jim was climbing up his body, all bare, smooth torso and rough trousers brushing against Sherlock's overheated flesh, trapped in the folds of his own clothes. Jim's weight was solid, but he was just light enough for it not to actually hurt. He stopped only when he was at the crook of Sherlock's neck, using wet fingers to turn his head, kiss his mouth...and on Jim's tongue was the taste of Sherlock himself. 

Sherlock tried to recoil, repulsed by the idea much more than the taste, but he was too exhausted to really get away. He had a split second, gazing back at Jim with a dazed look, before the smaller man pulled him back again. Sherlock could taste and smell musk and bitterness, far different than the blood that had coated his tongue not that long ago. 

Jim laughed into his mouth. 

Finally, Jim retreated and rested his head on the pillow, still draped on top of Sherlock, whose bitter face made Jim smile with a warmth that should have been alien on someone like him. Perhaps it was just the sex. He stretched over Sherlock's body, they both heard his back crack before he settled again. 

"I haven't felt this good in ages," Jim drawled.

Sherlock was still in shock, or something like it. Parts of his body were utterly content, while other parts picked up on his mental and emotional distress and kept trying to tense up even in the afterglow.

He didn't know what to say. Or do. He didn't know what people _did_ after something like that. He was still adjusting to the fact that he'd had his first proper kiss, and then sex, all under the shadow of a death threat, and the culprit had just kissed him with _cum_ on his tongue. Jim was smiling in an odd, unthreatening way and draped atop him and Sherlock could hardly ever remember being so disturbed. "I..."

Jim wriggled, trying to get more comfortable than he already was, which was a difficult feat in his already boneless state. Sherlock was warm and Jim was warm and together they made a very warm, and sticky, mess.

Jim's finger ran down Sherlock's nose, making him flinch away at the unfamiliar contact. A puff of air brushed his neck when Jim sighed. It was a sound of contentment. When he spoke, Sherlock felt it more than he heard it. 

"Thank you, Sherlock. But get out of my bed." 

Jim shimmied to the side and gave Sherlock a rough shove. 

Sherlock tumbled to one side, but not enough to fall off the mattress completely. The sudden movement shocked him into a more coherent state. 

Sherlock had no direct experience with these things, but a ripple of indignation was enough to tell him that, whatever the social norms were, what had just happened wasn't something he brooked with. 

"...you don't _have_ a bed," he began. "You invaded my life and my head, tried to kill me, and then used that threat to get what you wanted. This is _my_ bed, in _my mind_ somewhere."

One black eye opened to stare at him, and even though Jim's face was obscured by the pillow, Sherlock got the very distinct impression that he was smiling. 

The room began to fade. _Jim_ began to fade. His arms drew underneath his head, bunching up the pillow like he were going to sleep, but his smiling, taunting gaze never left Sherlock. 

Until he was gone. 

All of it was gone and Sherlock found himself left on the floor in the familiar corridors of his hall.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock went very still. Minutes were filled with nothing but his quiet breathing and the silence of the oak paneled halls. A torrent of emotions filled him, rage grappling with the rest and finally clawing its way to the top. Sherlock stood up on shaky legs.

His view of his mind palace faded with violent swiftness, turning to black before he woke up gasping. A tackiness coated his stomach, and when Sherlock turned his head to investigate a sharp pain lanced through his neck. He levered himself upright, away from the semen-stained bedding, and padded into the bathroom.

Sherlock's own haunted reflection stared back at him in the mirror. On his neck, blood had dried in two half-circles of teeth marks left by a smaller mouth.

He wanted to scream - or more accurately, to scream at Jim's phantom before doing something that would permanently wipe the smug, satisfied smile off of the man's face. Instead he started the water up and washed off in silence, then patched up his wound with gauze and ointment as best he could. Sherlock felt a terrible tension inside him all throughout, as if his internal pressure had changed and cracks in his very skin would appear at any moment.

Suddenly there was a pounding at the door. The door to the flat he rarely closed when John was still living there. Mrs. Hudson's hushed voice came from the other side, but she wasn't talking to Sherlock. Someone else was with her. Heavier, with a wider stance, judging by the creak of the floorboards, and then he spoke. 

"Sherlock! You there?" Lestrade. 

Sherlock had left him in Cambridge. Left with one of his squad cars. Lestrade sounded furious. And not just a little worried. Mrs. Hudson spoke again, but Lestrade was already opening the door. 

Sherlock quickly darted out of the bathroom and into his adjacent bedroom. This had to be about the borrowed squad car. Or perhaps the CCTV cameras catching his meeting with their prime suspect for the virus case. Or both. Regardless, he wasn't going to let Lestrade catch him nude. The DI had seen him in various states of terrible, but that thought wasn't one that Sherlock could stomach after what he'd just gone through. "I'm here! Give me a moment."

Lestrade wasn't deterred. "What the hell happened?" he shouted, storming through the flat after Sherlock, catching sight of a tousle of dark hair, a sliver of pale skin, and the slamming of the bedroom door in Sherlock's wake. "You disappeared, Sherlock, you disappeared and you didn't tell me. Again! We found the car you _stole_ a block from Trafalgar Square. I've been calling you all morning!"

"You'll have to forgive me. I must have blacked out after nearly being murdered." Sherlock's tone was a touch snappish through the bedroom door, but loud enough that Greg heard it just fine. Faint sounds of fabric rustling came from the other side. "I tracked our virus peddler down and got a first name, in return for being shot at. Again."

"You _just said_ you would tell me - " Sherlock could hear Lestrade throwing his hands up outside the door, turning around, and then around again when he couldn't decide how to direct his anger when Sherlock wasn't there to face him. "If you nearly got shot, it's your own damn fault! How the hell did you find him? And _why the hell didn't you tell me?_ " 

"His encrypted number was still connected. I was negotiating for the release of his hostage, and the stipulation was that I would meet him within a given time period. If I'd not left immediately without pausing to explain, I never would have made the deadline." Sherlock finally opened the door. The detective looked worse than Lestrade had seen him in awhile: skin unusually pale, and dark circles rimming his eyes. A white patch of gauze peeked above the collar of his dress shirt and he moved with a stiff tension that suggested stress rather than the slow droop of fatigue. Sherlock could see the DI taking it all in.

Lestrade drew up, taken aback enough to let his vehemence die. His eyes dropped to the floor and rose all the way up Sherlock's body, seeing the exhaustion, the slump of his shoulders, and everything that was wrong in his face. Greg would have asked if he'd been hit, but there was obviously no wound, and it didn't fit the look about him. 

The DI blinked, closing his mouth. "You look like shit." Lestrade's eyes narrowed, suspicion crossing his features. "What aren't you telling me?"

"Well, our deliveryman got away, obviously. I got an even closer look this time before he made his second murder attempt, but he might very well be out of the country by now." Sherlock met Lestrade's eyes, and the DI's scrutiny didn't fade. Sherlock sighed and rubbed a hand across his face. "I've been feeling ill and it's affected my sleep patterns, and other things by extension. The symptoms aren't consistent with the virus, so we needn’t worry about that."

"I'm gonna need you to give me everything you got on him. Name, sketch, whether he's got a ring on his right hand or a funny way of walking that tells you where the hell he came from and who he's working for, and _why_." Greg put his hands to his forehead, conflicted with Sherlock's problems and the need to focus on their suspect. He dropped them with a sigh. "And I'm ordering a drugs bust on the flat."

Sherlock blinked, then stiffened in indignation. "On what grounds? Because I left without telling you? I'm _clean_ , Lestrade. I haven't taken anything since the attempt at entrapping Magnussen. I'll take whatever tests you want, but you are _not_ ripping my flat apart because you're irritated at me."

"I _am_ irritated at you. And not only have you looked like shit since I've seen you recently, you've _twice_ not told me about you going off to meet this guy on your own with no backup, I still am no closer to finding him, and you _passed out_ and can't tell me why. _That's_ more reasonable suspicion than I've ever needed before, and you know it," Lestrade shot back and turned, taking up his phone and giving the orders. 

A flash of panic and hurt crossed Sherlock's face once Lestrade's back was turned. He'd been telling the truth, but that wouldn't matter once they found his stashes. _If_ they found them. He'd get that look again, the one that said the DI felt that he was a surrogate father as well as a friend, and a disappointed one at that, and then Sherlock would be carted off and stuck in a cell for a battery of tests after being charged. He wouldn't be able to find some way to fight back against Jim before he had to sleep again, or the ghost came out of hiding. "...Greg, I'm telling the truth. Don't do this."

"Then you've got nothing to worry about, do you?" Greg's shoulders straightened, but the action looked more like a recoil than a stance of confidence. The way Sherlock stepped an inch closer, the insistence in his voice, made Greg worry he might actually be right. 

Mrs. Hudson, quiet by the door, began making soft noises of protest. 

They didn't have to wait long, however. An incoming confirmation on Lestrade's phone was followed by the sound of footsteps in the hall. 

"Something's happened, and I don't want to have to explain it in front of-" Anderson. Donovan. All of the various techs and officers he'd blithely and routinely insulted over the years. Sherlock's hand drifted up to cover the gauze patch on his neck. He'd imagined what this situation must have been like for victims, of course, but he'd never thought he'd experience post-assault firsthand. He tried to think up some sort of reason he could give Lestrade that wouldn't sound completely insane. "...something happened to me. Recently."

Greg's eyes followed to his neck, narrowing at the bandage, but Sherlock could see he wasn't putting anything rational together. Lestrade had first thought physical confrontation with their suspect, who was currently getting away the longer he lingered at Sherlock's flat without answers. Then he'd thought drugs, but couldn't make sense of that. Self injury. Accident. Sherlock saw every idea pass the DI's face, but none stuck. 

The Met officers were at the doorway, waiting for Lestrade to give the go-ahead. 

Greg looked at the end of his rope. " _What?_ "

Sherlock swallowed, his gaze flickering towards the door for a moment. He stood up straighter and turned back towards the DI, resolved but with an odd look of shame on his face. He closed the distance between himself and the older man. 

Sherlock's fingers went to the top buttons of his shirt, undoing them one by one until the square of gauze was more accessible. He pulled on the medical tape holding down the edges, just enough for the DI to see the top of the wound. Sherlock averted his eyes. He knew Lestrade had seen enough victims with bite wounds that he'd recognize the marks for what they were.

Very slowly, Lestrade's mouth fell open. 

He looked up at Sherlock. Then down at the mark, and back up again. He raised one hand to the team at the door who were looking between one another, wondering what the hold up was. "Job's off. Give me a minute. Out. Now." They were dumbfounded. "And tell Donovan I'll have details on our suspect in a minute. Just, _out_." 

And with that, they were gone. 

"I'll just be down the hall..." Even Mrs. Hudson crept back out after them, not wanting to feel the kind of tension that was building greater and greater between the two men in Sherlock's hall. 

Sherlock covered the mark back up. The tape readily stuck to his skin again, but he didn't remove his hand from the gauze. Sherlock could feel heat rushing into his cheeks and he just wanted to sink into the floor. Lestrade was going to ask questions that he didn't want, and want him to submit evidence for a culprit they would never catch. Not the Met, at any rate. "I don't want to talk about it."

Lestrade swallowed, but he didn't step back, he didn't move away, he didn't know where to look, but he didn't avert his gaze. "He got that close?" 

The question was an obvious one. Lestrade had jumped to the wrong conclusion. He'd taken what pieces he had, the only ones Sherlock had given him, and put them together to try to form a coherent picture. And that was the only picture that made sense. 

Sherlock shook his head. "No. Someone else." Time froze for a minute and the walls seemed to close in. When Sherlock's awareness returned he couldn't have said how many seconds he'd paused, but it had been enough for Lestrade to grow even more concerned. "It's not tied to the case. Our suspect got close, but not that close. He was more concerned about putting a bullet in my head than anything else."

Greg screwed his eyes shut, obviously not liking what he was about to ask, but he had to. "Give me everything you could tell about our suspect. Donovan's out there with nothing to go on. Then you're gonna tell me how... Just, tell me what happened." 

If their suspect was long gone, as Sherlock had said he likely was, then that was that. If he wasn't, then Donovan had a shot at finding him and that had to be priority. Lestrade, however, didn't have to be there. "Let's...make a cuppa, alright?"

Sherlock nodded and walked off towards the kitchen. Greg knew very well where the kettle and teabags were, given how many times he'd visited over the years. Sherlock had simply come to figure out that he liked making tea; there'd been a routine when John had lived with him, and he'd made tea for himself whenever possible while undercover, around the right times. The comfort of routine and the measurements helped him focus, and he'd continued the daily ritual after returning to life in the flat. 

"The man Donovan will be looking for is about 1.89 meters tall, weight about 90 kilograms. His first name seems to be Sebastian, he reacts to it as if it's a personal name rather than an old alias. Squared jaw, rather German-featured due to his heritage, but his accent shows that he grew up in Britain. There's an odd juxtaposition in his speaking - pieces of his diction suggest he had some public schooling, possibly from a monied background, but he certainly didn't stay in that social sphere. I said as much before, but we'll have to look through records for specialist marksman training. He knows how to sneak through a crowd even with his height and bulk, and is very accurate at shooting moving targets. I suspect he only missed me given that he was emotionally compromised."

Greg's phone was out and he was relaying Sherlock's summary to Donovan without a second's hesitation, barely pausing to put the details together in his own mind until the end. Donovan, on the other end, seemed to be taking it in as well judging from Lestrade's pace, a testament to how much they had at least come to trust Sherlock's skill. 

"What do you mean, he was emotionally compromised?" Greg asked when he hung up, pausing by the table like the answer to that question had some bearing on whether he would sit or not. 

"I... said some things I hadn't intended to." Sherlock watched bubbles of air drift up in the kettle and burst. He tried to put his experience into words that Lestrade would accept, rather than something that would make him suspect Sherlock might truly be abusing substances again. "This man is specifically targeting me because he holds me responsible for Moriarty's death, and resents the fact that I survived. I suspect that they had very close personal involvement, possibly lovers or an unrequited affection. This is personal for him, not business, and when it was suggested that Moriarty had a bad, painful end, he was no longer interested in answering my questions or getting sidetracked by my stalling. I had to run and, despite how close I was, the bullet grazed my ear."

Lestrade stared and shook his head. "Well let it never be said you don't have that effect on people." He chose to make light of things, even if Sherlock could see him reeling from the idea that Moriarty's ex lover or whatever the hell he was, was now gunning for Sherlock. He watched Sherlock turn, pour the water, steep the tea, but didn't move to speak again until he had a mug sitting in front of him. Something he could turn in his hands, round and round. "So you got away. And then what?" 

Sherlock could see the leading questions Lestrade wasn't asking. 'You just happened to get attacked?' 'How could that really be unrelated?' 

Sherlock sat down and stared at the steam rising from the mug between his hands. "I started to feel ill again. Unbearably tired, dizzy. I'd presumed it was shock, or related to how poorly I'd been feeling for the past several hours. I also didn't know if the gunman had only gone a short ways and might be waiting to pick me off if I went back to the squad car, and I was in no shape to drive. I took a cab back here."

Greg's brows furrowed, waiting for more. He kept quiet out of sensitivity, but Sherlock could see the questions burning in him just as much as he didn't want to ask them. Surely Lestrade had never before imagined himself sitting in Sherlock Holmes' kitchen in the middle of a case, asking these kinds of things. "And then?"

"The rest isn't going to make any sense." Sherlock was doing his best to hold still, keep his expression neutral, but distress still leaked through the mask. He didn't want to tell Lestrade. He didn't want to tell _anyone_. It wouldn't change anything, and this wasn't a problem anyone could help him solve.

A line formed between the crease of Greg's brows, narrowing even further. That was not a statement he expected to ever hear from Sherlock, not until they were in the middle of a particularly stumping case. Which, to be fair, they sort of were. Lestrade eased his expression, ready to take it in stride. "Try me."

Sherlock was quiet for an unusually long stretch of time. Or perhaps not so unusual, given the implications of what had happened. "I got inside and began feeling even worse. I began to feel like I was losing my mind, and I started dying. I thought I was having a heart attack. None of this, I should mention, is remotely close to anything else I've ever experienced, either from sleep deprivation or drugs, and I've not been taking anything."

Sherlock took a sip of tea. He was ashamed to see his hand tremble when setting the mug back down. 

One glance at Greg out of the corner of his eye told him the DI's confusion was only mounting. He kept waiting for Sherlock to tell him something concrete and that wasn't happening. His lips began to form a question, but he paused, knowing Sherlock knew he wasn't making sense yet, waiting for him to continue. Even though Sherlock had warned Greg these events wouldn't make sense. 

"Moriarty showed up. I was given an ultimatum, of sorts, that I either gave him what he wanted, or he'd get another thing he wanted: for me to be dead, like he'd intended two years ago. He was angry I'd escaped. I didn't want to die and I was incapable of fighting him off." Sherlock's gaze slid down and fixed on a random spot on the table. "I'm still uncertain any of it was real, other than the fact that I woke up to..." He gestured at his neck. "It's too small to belong to the gunman, and I don't think I'd have lived if he'd followed me back to the flat and snuck inside somehow."

Greg's face showed no less confusion. He didn't want to be insensitive, and Sherlock was right, it was more than obvious that he had indeed been attacked, but... 

" _Moriarty_?" Lestrade repeated. His eyes danced cast around the table, trying to put it all together. The unexplained sickness, heart attack, incoherency, whatever, and then the presence of Moriarty, turning up in Sherlock's flat of all places, the one place they assumed the gunman hadn't yet attacked Sherlock for fear of his brother's security. It didn't add up. Unless... "Sherlock," Greg slid his cup aside. "Is it possible you could have been dosed with something, without realizing? That you wound up hallucinating? This Sebastian could have come back, attacked you while you were out of it..." He shook his head, still uncertain. "There's one way to find out. Right, you're coming with me to the hospital." 

Sherlock shut his eyes. The hospital was less conspicuous than being brought down to the station, but would still be a drain on time. Patient confidentiality was such that he'd have to worry less about loose tongues, but he'd still be put through a battery of questions he'd rather not face. Giving in was the only way he was going to get Greg to back off, however, and it was a far better option than anything else he had at the moment. "...alright."

Lestrade nodded and pushed away from the table. "Tox screen should clear up that theory. After that, well... One thing at a time." He buttoned up the coat he'd never taken off, made sure he had his keys and his phone and waited for Sherlock to do the same. Sherlock caught Lestrade's eyes glancing around the flat, trying to find signs of a break in or disturbance, and seeing nothing. 

Sherlock rebuttoned his shirt and ensured the gauze square was hid by the collar before donning his coat and scarf. He joined the DI by the door. "...I don't want John to know," he added quietly. John's medical background would have normally been advantageous for an investigation like this, but Sherlock couldn't bear the thought of him knowing. Of being the recipient of that heartbreakingly empathetic look John had given so many of the victims they'd helped as a team. There was too much history and too many buried feelings there for Sherlock to cope so soon after everything that had transpired.

Lestrade turned to look at him, but nodded. Maybe he understood. Maybe he was already worrying about Sherlock. Maybe both. 

They left together, back into the winter chill that hadn't dissipated even with the arrival of the sun peeking through the clouds every now and again. Lestrade led the way to his car, parked haphazardly on the street in a rush to get to the flat. The street was otherwise quiet, Greg's team having long gone to chase after a man who was nearly as much of a ghost as his employer. 

They drove in silence, neither knowing what to say. Lestrade assumed the only thing that would shed light on the events of the previous night would be the tests they were about to perform. Sherlock knew otherwise. 

Still, the voice in his head remained silent. Moriarty might as well have been a dream. 

Sherlock still didn't know what to make of it all. He had a profoundly difficult time believing in ghosts. They were supposed to turn up when someone had been horribly murdered or had died suddenly and left things undone, and yet Sherlock had been around a lot of corpses without anything supernatural ever happening. Enthusiast groups had failed to record and present satisfactory scientific data again and again. He didn't believe in ghosts and ghouls and magic, but he couldn't deny what was happening to him. The teeth marks were proof, as was his brief loss of vocal control and Sebastian's reactions and admissions, and even with all that aside, his mind and body seemed to be experiencing the hallucinations and dreams as if they were real.

Sherlock didn't think Jim was going to be satisfied with just one night of torment. Everything was silent now, but Sherlock didn't doubt that things wouldn't stay that way.

Lestrade pulled into St. Bart's and led Sherlock to the sign-in desk. The nurses on the other side bustled into action after recognizing him and seeing Lestrade's badge. Celebrity status wasn't supposed to matter in how care was prioritized, but like with most things, the ideal rarely seemed to transfer to actual practice.

Since it didn't seem to be a matter of urgent care any longer, Sherlock was directed to the toxicology laboratories, Lestrade in tow as he refused to wait in the lounge. Doctors and staff darted out of their way by habit in the hall, and it was a little disconcerting. Sherlock’s presence in the hospital as a patient was technically the second time, but definitely not a common occurrence. 

The doctor on call did a double take when they entered the room before the nurse explained to him their situation. Dr. Meyers, announced his nametag, and Greg smiled the smile he was used to giving consulting staff whenever he had a request. 

Sherlock wasn't in the mood for small talk or for sympathy. It was a testament to just how out of sorts he was feeling that he didn't snap at or belittle the doctor when asked obvious questions, simply gave short, dispassionate responses. He rolled up his sleeve without fuss when instructed for blood work, and he didn't miss the glance Lestrade shot at his arm. The DI knew he'd preferred injection during his junkie days, but no track marks or bruising were visible there.

Ostensibly, this was a good sign, but the frown on Lestrade's face was still worrisome. 

The doctor gave Sherlock a cup and had him return a urine sample, and once they had collected everything they could, Sherlock and Lestrade were left to wait. Some results would return faster than others, but with Lestrade's influence they would have their answer within several hours. 

In the meantime, that left them with very little to do. Lestrade didn't want to leave Sherlock alone. He still thought Sherlock should be checked out by a doctor, but wasn't going to force him. And all the while in the background, Donovan and the rest of his team chased after a suspect who, they had confirmed after several calls, had gone off the map. 

Sherlock was still feeling exhausted, both physically and mentally, and his stomach was finally beginning to complain about the fact that it had had nothing of substance for 48 hours. Lestrade had taken one look at him and dragged him down to the small coffee shop on the premises. Sherlock had gone reluctantly but, in truth, he was somewhat grateful to have Lestrade fussing over him. It was proof that the older man cared.

He could feel the DI's concerned gaze while he picked at the pastry and tea he'd bought. "...I'll be fine, Lestrade."

The DI crossed his arms and frowned at his own pastry. Sherlock was alive, and at this point that was what counted. Lestrade obviously didn't want to contest that fact, even if the look on his face said he had his doubts. "I'll feel a lot better when we get that sunofabitch." Whether he meant Sebastian or Moriarty was left unsaid. As far as Lestrade knew, they had Moriarty's body. It had been confirmed. And yet he looked as though every one of Anderson's hyperbolic body-switching fantasies started crossing his mind and he had to shake them out of his head. 

"So will I." Moriarty's ex-gunman was a liability, and the man now had even more motivation to try to assassinate him. Sherlock wished he could have gotten more information out of him before the man had pulled a gun. He needed all the leverage against Moriarty that he could get. "He's not the sort that will let this go. He'll come back for another strike until we catch him."

"Well one thing we've learned from all this," Lestrade began, "is that your brother's security is not enough. I'm going to put a watch on your flat. Anything that happens, you need to have backup there. And no more going off on your own, you got it?" He leveled a Danish at Sherlock before biting into it. 

It was then that Sherlock began to feel a particular sensation, one that was becoming a little more familiar than it perhaps should be. Something stretched in his mind, moving, nudging aside neurons that formed the basis of his thoughts and memories, like waking. And with it, a _very_ familiar voice followed. 

_"Oh my, look at this little predicament."_

Sherlock wasn't quite able to suppress his look of horror and a shudder. His pulse immediately picked up, accompanied by a feeling that the walls were closing in. He could see out of the corner of his vision that Lestrade had noticed, and that he had spoken, but Sherlock hadn't caught the. He was too focused on the presence at the back of his mind. _"Go away,"_ he thought as loudly as he could.

Cruel, bitter laughter filled his mind while Lestrade's hand touched his arm. _"How tragic you must seem to him. Poor Sherlock's losing his grip on reality. You know that's what he's thinking. But you just had to tell the truth didn't you? Even when you knew you couldn't explain it. What are you going to tell him when your tests turn up negative, hm?"_

The grip on Sherlock's shoulder turned hard as Lestrade jerked Sherlock to face him. 

Sherlock turned to Lestrade and saw how he must have looked to the DI. He felt afraid, and like he had no control, and it must have shown. Lestrade was looking at him with an expression he'd only seen a few times before - when he'd been extremely ill during withdrawal, and in the hospital after he'd been shot. "...sorry, I didn't hear what you said."

Greg paused, not looking any more relieved that Sherlock had at least come back to the present. "That been happening a lot lately?" he spoke without removing his hand, like he didn't want to back away and leave Sherlock without contact, without a stabilizer. No doubt he was adding this to Sherlock's purported blackout the night prior and asking himself all sorts of questions about Sherlock's sanity, possibly even drug involvement in spite of the lack of marks on his arm. In spite of everything Sherlock went through the first time. 

"Only occasionally, and only within the past 48 hours." Sherlock frowned. He was used to other people insinuating that he was crazy, to the point that he'd sometimes worn the accusations like armor, but it had been a long time since Lestrade had doubted him like this. It only made him feel worse. "I think your suggestion reminded me. Of things."

"What things?" Greg's grip finally loosened. "Look, I know you get a little weird sometimes, but something obviously just happened to you, and yeah, I've got to admit, I'm a little worried." Greg made no effort to hide his glance at Sherlock's collar, no doubt thinking Sherlock could be attacked again, wondering if the way Sherlock _had_ been attacked was having a very negative effect on his mind, wondering still further whether anything else had happened within those last 48 hours with this Sebastian that Sherlock hadn't mentioned the first time around. 

Sherlock retrieved his arm, rubbing at the spot where Greg's hand had been. "...your suggestion that I need guards in case I get attacked again simply reminded me of everything that happened. I didn't just get bitten," he snapped, but his voice never rose above a whisper. "And I can tell that you're wondering if I've been on anything that _doesn't_ involve needles, to which the answer is _no_ , and the lab results will prove as much soon enough."

Lestrade held up his hands. "Alright. Alright. Shit..." He clenched his teeth and looked very sorry for suspecting that Sherlock might be losing it, whether that be to drugs or a deeper issue. He looked sorry for even suggesting that, considering the circumstance, it might be completely rational for Sherlock to be losing it just a little, but still none of his regret negated the questions Greg still had. Because none of it could explain what had happened to Sherlock in the first place, how Moriarty, of all people, had slipped into Sherlock's flat and nearly killed him. Without the assistance of drugs, even ones Sherlock hadn't knowingly taken. 

Sherlock heard a scoff in the back of his mind. 

_"Shut up."_ Sherlock passed a hand over his face. "Let's go back to the waiting room. They should have gotten at least some of the results back by now." Lestrade would get no solid answers to his questions, other than confirmation that Sherlock wasn't under the influence of anything illicit, but he just might let Sherlock go home. 

Sherlock cut off the rest of that train of thought. He didn't want Moriarty to know what he was thinking.

Greg sighed and finished off his coffee. "Yeah, ok." 

Sherlock rose first and Lestrade had to follow after the lanky consultant as he stalked down the halls back to toxicology. They swept through the doors just to catch Dr. Meyers finishing off the paperwork at his desk and a pair of assistants clearing out of the room with other projects, no doubt catching sight of Sherlock. He looked up and his expression said everything they needed to hear before he uttered a word. "Good news. Far as I can see, you're clean. I don't expect the last tests to indicate otherwise." 

Lestrade blinked, brought up short behind Sherlock. 

Sherlock turned to Lestrade and raised an eyebrow. "Just as I told you." Hallucinations brought on by chemicals wouldn't have caused him to materialize bite marks or chafed skin. "Now, if you're completely satisfied, I want to go home. There's nothing else I can tell you that will help Donovan with the case."

"Alright...but one last thing. Thank you, doctor." Greg stepped toward the door, nodding to Meyers who gave the DI a smile back. He led Sherlock back out into the hall, waiting until they were alone. In spite of Sherlock's clean bill of, at least chemical, health, Lestrade still looked worried. "This still leaves me with more questions than it does answers. When you spaced out, you said..." He trailed off and started again, "What happened to you 48 hours ago?"

"Nothing, as far as I know. I didn't consume anything or do anything out of the ordinary, but I started getting chills and patches of fatigue. I had worried at first that I'd gotten contaminated with the virus that had been sent to me somehow, or something else, but further symptoms would have shown up." Lestrade still looked adamant, and Sherlock shook his head and lowered his voice. "I'm not detailing my assault to you. Nothing will be found beyond the marks on my neck. I'm certain of that."

Lestrade bristled on instinct, on gut reaction to do _something_ , before he deflated. He could argue that Sherlock get himself checked over, but Greg seemed to believe Sherlock's assessment. He could argue that Sherlock talk to someone, but Sherlock would rip a therapist apart before they got within arm's reach of his own problems. He could demand that Sherlock sit down with him, search the flat, search the CCTV network, to find any concrete evidence that might explain how these seemingly inexplicable events had taken place, but Sherlock was right, Lestrade had to keep looking for this Sebastian, and if Sherlock thought he needed to rest, then he deserved it. More than. 

"I'm stationing a watch outside your flat. When you leave, you text me. If something happens, you call me. If you get so much as a _knock on the door_ , you call me. Do you understand?" 

"Understood," Sherlock muttered, but he did understand. He knew perfectly well how this must look from the DI's perspective, and before this he would have disbelieved anyone who had claimed to experience what he'd been experiencing. Lestrade was concerned and confused, and Sherlock was glad to have someone give a damn about him, but at the moment Greg's concern was profoundly unhelpful. "Now get me home. Text me if Donovan actually manages to find our suspect."

"Right." They had a bit of a waiting game ahead of them, but Lestrade did look like he wanted to let Sherlock rest. He would take up the hunt again, and he had new motivation now. He wouldn't be insensitive enough to let on to the rest of the Met know what had happened, but they would work just as hard as he would to find Moriarty, if he was really out there, and their new suspect. 

When they left again the sun had disappeared behind the clouds. The sky promised more rain that afternoon, but at least it matched their moods. 

Sherlock spent the ride back brooding, or at least it appeared that way to Lestrade. He was actually, fruitlessly trying to feel around in the back of his mind, as if Moriarty were a loose thread he could simply find and pluck out. The more he thought about what had happened, the angrier he got. 

_"You had no right."_

Sherlock could feel it when Moriarty came back to him. Like he'd been somewhere far off, like he'd heard Sherlock and had returned, his presence slithering back up Sherlock's insides like something alive and extremely disconcerting. 

_"You offered. I accepted,"_ he whispered into Sherlock's ear as Lestrade turned the corner on Baker St. 

_"I didn't offer all of that, and you know it."_ Moriarty had known very well that he had no experience, and had decided to engage him _twice_ , then left him to deal with the emotional fallout. Sherlock felt his insides knot just remembering. He'd tried to make the best of the situation, but the criminal hadn't gone easy on him in return.

"Right," Sherlock sighed once Lestrade pulled over to the kerb. "I can make it in on my own."

"Remember, _call!_ " Lestrade shouted after him as he got out of the car. He could see the restrained worry on the DI's face even through the window. He didn't drive away until Sherlock had gone inside either.


	6. Chapter 6

Moriarty seemed to be content to remain quiet, but Sherlock could feel that he hadn't left. He slipped in and out of Sherlock's thoughts and every once in a while a memory would appear, seemingly out of nowhere, only for Sherlock to realize that it was Moriarty who had pulled it up. 

Sherlock walked the flat despite his confidence that Sebastian wouldn't have come to kill him here. Having the ghost of a killer inside his head had made him feel less secure about probabilities than he had before. Every room turned up empty, but random memories kept cropping up as he walked. After a few moments an idea surfaced. _"...stop going through my head. You don't have my permission to do that."_ Not that lack of permission was likely to stop the man.

A laugh was his only answer, and as far as he could tell, Moriarty didn't stop. In fact, he seemed to become more interested as he went along. Sherlock sometimes felt something shift while not completely aware of what it was, but the glimpses he did see were going further and further back in time, and Jim seemed to be enjoying himself. 

Sherlock paused and leaned against the kitchen table. He had no idea what he was doing, but he pictured his own hands reaching back into the dark, near the point where he could feel weight and movement. _"Stop it, Jim. I mean it."_ A sense of helplessness created another surge of anger. He wished he hadn't stayed his hand when he'd had Moriarty pinned to the ground several hours ago.

_"Or what?"_ Jim hissed back, anger flaring in return, mirroring Sherlock again. The sensation Sherlock received was like running into a wall, or at least something very solid since he could not determine whether it had edges. Jim pushed back. _"You don't like me in your mind, do you?" Hearing all your trivial little thoughts, all the ones that aren't so brilliant, all the ones you wouldn't share with anyone else? All the little holes in your collection of knowledge? Would you be upset if I found them and pointed them out for you? Do you still remember the sun doesn't fly around the earth? And what about your memories....? I quite liked that little cabin by the shore."_

_"It wasn't the **cabin** you liked."_ Sherlock pounded his fists against the wall and tried to feel a way around the barrier. _"Don't think I didn't notice. I was only eleven in that memory, and your entire expression changed, and not just with surprise."_

Which only made Sherlock remember what had happened - the kiss, and Jim draped atop him, hard. Sherlock felt violated again. So long as Jim was tied to him like this, he was never going to be safe. He couldn't function like this.

The barrier shifted, pushing toward him. Jim advancing. Angry now. At the accusation? 

_"Oh Sherlock, **think**. How could I resist you? Don't you remember? I'm transparent if you were only just willing to **look**._ " Jim's voice turned cruel, cutting, pushing at Sherlock just as hard as Sherlock pushed back. _"You don't think I noticed you just five years ago, do you?"_ His voice was right up in Sherlock's ear now, Jim's whole presence had moved to the very forefront of Sherlock’s mind. It became a whisper, losing some of its edge, softening into something more...sincere. _"Do you really think I didn't notice the strange boy investigating the death of Carl Powers all those years ago? I saw you, even then. You were perfect."_

_"I suspected, given where you had us meet for the first time. Or rather, meet again when you weren't pretending to be someone else."_ Sherlock felt again for the edges of the barrier, a handhold, anything he could find to get a lock on Jim. _"So you saw a challenge and something you wanted to possess and destroy. Congratulations. You're well on your way towards the latter."_

Jim sighed against Sherlock's ear, sending tingles of sensation over the skin and down his neck, just like Jim were really there. Ice hung in the air again. _"I am, aren't I? Would that be a shame if you died? Do you think I could drive you to suicide? We could make a game of it. 'How long can Sherlock last with me in his head?' Do you think that's why I stayed behind? After all, you didn't jump. Seems only logical..."_

Sherlock sank into one of the kitchen chairs and buried his head in his hands. _"I don't know why you're here, but you seem to value nothing. You didn't value yourself, or the empire you built, or whatever it was you had with your assassin. And now you said I'm all you have left, but you're equally careless. Nihilistic sadism."_

Jim's presence softened. Sherlock could almost feel phantom arms wrapping about his shoulders. False comfort. 

_"Value a thing and that thing will be your undoing."_ Jim whispered. _"Everyone knows this. And yet no one takes it to heart, no one is strong enough to follow through with it. I told you once before... No one ever gets to me."_ Sherlock could almost hear the smile in his voice. And then, like a secret, he continued. _"I valued you, Sherlock. And I valued myself. Do you see now, what I had to do on that rooftop?"_

"No," Sherlock whispered. Misery settled into his bones. "I don't see how you saw it. What I think is that you got tired. Nothing was pleasurable enough anymore, nothing was distracting enough, and it turned into pain. You wanted the pain to end, and you couldn't bear the thought of leaving unaccompanied. Of me being able to manage the same sort of pain and continue living when you couldn't handle it anymore."

Jim hissed in his ear, but not in contradiction. Sherlock had struck a nerve. _"Either way, you should have died with me. Our story would have ended together."_ Jim's insubstantial arms were as little comfort as his words, and together they sat alone in the bleakness of Sherlock's flat, dusty and still inside, overcast outside. 

"Assumptions. You didn't own me. You wanted to, but you didn't, because that's one point where we happen to be the same. You tried to manipulate me like you would a normal person, but I'm not normal." Sherlock sighed. "And you're still trying. Outright murder, or getting me to crack and kill myself. What you don't know is whether either of those will guarantee that you won’t be alone. You could end up in as much boredom and pain as you had when you were alive, but without any company or real means to get rid of it for a while. Even if I die and end up a ghost like you, you have no guarantee I'll stay, and I certainly won't be inclined to, or to do anything you want. You don't treat me like a person, you treat me like a toy to be broken."

Jim's arms slowly unwound from Sherlock's shoulders, if they had ever really been there in the first place, if it wasn't any more than Jim projecting the sensation of arms into Sherlock's head. Still, Sherlock could almost feel fingers trailing across his shoulders as they went. 

_"If you asked me what I couldn't stand more than the way things were before, I would answer you: this."_ Jim did not sound at all happy, and yet he had not contradicted Sherlock's prediction that he could possibly make things worse by carrying out his desire to end Sherlock. Jim's soft voice began to fade, and his presence began to grow distant. 

"Consider, then. You are unhappy with the present, and what you have been doing will likely only make you more unhappy. Try treating me better." Sherlock was still immeasurably angry with Jim, but if they were stuck together and he wasn't constantly mistreated and pushed to his wits' end, Sherlock wasn't so cruel as to make the criminal miserable. If it could be easily helped, at any rate.

He could hear Jim's fading snort, almost a laugh, but not quite. Even that had an edge of bitterness to it. _"Why can't we all just get along..."_ he crooned mockingly until his voice faded completely, shrinking back to wherever he had come from. Possibly leaving Sherlock's mind altogether. It was hard to tell. 

Sherlock waited for a few minutes, listening and trying to get a sense of whether or not Jim had actually left. He seemed to be dormant, which was the best Sherlock could hope for. When the silence continued, Sherlock set the coffee pot to brew and snatched up his laptop.

It was only reasonable to assume that he was not the only person this had ever happened to. 

Sherlock opened up his browser and began to search, but was completely unprepared for what he found. 

He understood that he was brighter than the average member of the populace, and that people on the whole were driven to balance themselves between a projection of uniqueness and a desire to fit in via conformity, but the sheer amount of drivel available on the internet was ludicrous. People seemed to be claiming hauntings at a rate that would rival the population density of London. Users bragged about unique abilities to see and hear spirits as well as read minds, to be able to curse anyone who crossed them by sending ghosts to attack the offender, or bemoaned their lack of free time due to requests from these unseen clients. Advice for ridding oneself of spirits suggested anything from table salt to urine to ringing highly specific bells, asking them politely to leave, or threatening them in the name of gods Sherlock didn't believe in. A few posts suggested what they term 'shamanic astral healing', or that embracing an angry spirit and accepting them would make them less destructive.

Sherlock lowered his forehead to the table and dissolved into breathy, despairing laughter. Random searches were not going to be of any use. He needed to determine if any true experts existed, and then see what they knew.

With not much more effort, he did find several local options. Many claimed to be exorcists of one sort or another, mostly Catholic and a few other odd religions. Another group, however, claimed to be a society of "ghost chasers" operating out of London. Though their website left much to be desired, they did list themselves as professional investigators of the paranormal including hauntings, poltergeists, residual energy, and any other supernatural phenomena. 

Most notably, they were not operating on the basis of any religion and were populated by what looked to be several individuals of varied backgrounds. 

Sherlock weighed his options. There weren't many. This was outside his realm of expertise, so far away from what he was familiar with that he didn't even know where to begin. If information could be gleaned from so-called professionals, then he had to try. Even with the risk that they'd recognize him and spread rumors. He didn't care much about his reputation apart from how it would affect his standing with his friends and his ability to work with the Met, and Lestrade was already doubting his stability.

With some reluctance, Sherlock dug out his phone. He wasn't going to go to the effort of sneaking out of the flat and tracking down this group's location without some measure of confidence that they weren't completely barmy.

After the third ring a young man picked up. He sounded tired, possibly working another day job. Still able to answer the line, however, and happy to be doing so judging from the modulation in his tone. 

"Ghost Chasers Paranormal Society, this is Chris." 

"Hello, Chris." Sherlock noted the man's name and immediately used it. People had a tendency to be more receptive to requests after their names had been repeated. "I'm calling because I have an unusual situation and thought your Society might be able to offer me some insight. From what I understand, most hauntings are focused on a location or an object, but I've encountered one focusing on a person."

"Really? Ok. Well let's see. What can you tell me about this haunting? What makes you suspect it is a haunting, whether the deceased is someone you or the subject being haunted knew, whether the spirit seems in any way dangerous or malevolent, things like that." Sherlock could hear shuffling in the background. Chris was getting ready to take down notes. 

"It's someone the subject knew, who died suddenly and seems to be angry at the subject because of it. Symptoms have included fatigue, the subject speaking as if the deceased were talking and saying things that only the deceased knew, and thrown objects that were witnessed by another person. Unfortunately, the second witness has since left on a business trip, so I can't have them corroborate." Sherlock could hear the sound of pen hitting paper. The back of his own mind was, happily, still completely silent. "The spirit seems interested in tormenting or killing the subject. I need to know if it can be gotten rid of."

"Alright, well, that sounds pretty serious. I'll warn you right now though, that though we can try a number of things to persuade this spirit to leave or calm down, getting rid of a ghost by force is extremely difficult. One of the guys on our team has been dealing with a malevolent presence for twenty odd years." At that point Sherlock could hear the change in Chris's tone, trying not to worry his caller before they'd even met. "But like I said, if there's anything that can be done, we can check it out for you and get you some good advice. We do charge a small fee, just to cover costs of petrol and equipment and time."

"Money won't be an issue. Discretion is. The subject would prefer to meet you somewhere. Not a home visit, if at all possible." Sherlock wasn't going to have a team of people show up on his doorstep. The Met would certainly stop and question them, and once they found out who these people were, the visit wouldn't be kept under wraps. Other fans also camped out on his doorstep at times, and some of them might recognize these people. 

"Not a problem, so long as the spirit definitely isn't attached to a specific location. We can meet wherever you'd like, within reason. Jared, Melanie, and myself are free this week after 5, whenever works best for you." Chris scratched something quickly on his pad of paper. 

"Today would be appreciated, if you can manage to get your team together that quickly." Sherlock searched his memory for an optimal place to meet. "Are you familiar with the abandoned Shoreditch police station? The one right off Sherphardess Walk? We'll meet there. You don't need to worry about citations for trespassing."

"Yes, yes, we can get there by 5:30 if that works out for you? You and the person this spirit has attached itself to will both need to be there. Our instruments won't pick anything up if we can't get the spirit to follow." Chris was enthusiastic now. It must have been something in Sherlock's presentation that caught his attention, but he did manage to keep up a professional tone. 

"Trust me, location doesn't matter for this spirit. It's firmly attached to the subject. Bring your instruments and we'll meet there at 5:30. I should also caution you: you and your team will have to sign a confidentiality agreement. You won't discuss this case with others without the permission of the subject." Sherlock could only hope that Jim stayed dormant and oblivious to his plans until he had a chance to get information out of these people, if they had any expertise at all.

"Understood." Sherlock could almost hear Chris nod. "We'll see you then."

When they hung up, Sherlock was left in silence. He had only a few hours to wait before they met, hours when Jim could potentially turn up at any moment. It was impossible to say what the spirit did when he was silent, whether he remained with Sherlock or went elsewhere, and whether he was aware of the passage of time at all. Jim had mentioned being aware that three years had passed since his death, but he also didn't seem...completely coherent in the beginning, either. He had seemed mostly impulse. He hadn't been vocal right away either. By the time he was, he'd faded quickly, as if running on a battery. 

That gave Sherlock ideas. 

Certainly it would explain why he'd felt incredibly tired each time Jim became active. Ghosts didn't eat, so energy had to come from somewhere. Given that Jim seemed to be specifically connected to _him_ , it stood to reason that he was drawing energy from Sherlock much like a parasite. In the short term, it was merely irritating, but in the long term it might have rather severe consequences to his health. That is, if Jim didn't simply get tired and angry and kill him on an impulse.

Sherlock glanced out the window. Sure enough, Lestrade had followed through on his word and posted a pair of fairly obvious watchmen outside. The DI wouldn't have been foolish enough to leave the back of the building uncovered, which meant that if Sherlock wanted to get out of the flat unseen, he was going to have to take one of the other routes. He had a few hours, but he didn't want to spend them cooped up where he could possibly fall asleep or get sidetracked by a visitor. Neither did he much fancy being spotted entering their meeting place shortly before the scheduled time. Just because the ghost hunter on the phone had agreed to confidentiality didn't mean that there would be no other eyes watching.

Sherlock poured his coffee into a travel mug and shrugged back into his coat. Up the stairs and through John's old bedroom, he was able to climb out through the back window and lever himself onto the rooftop. With land in London coming at a premium, it wasn't difficult to simply walk a fair distance away from his Met babysitters by the rooftops and use handholds to descend back to street level. 

Within a few minutes he'd managed to flag down a cab. He could only hope Lestrade didn't decide to check in on him to find him missing from the flat.

He was nearly there by the time he became aware of Jim's presence again. It was the subtlest of changes in his perception, like knowing he was sitting next to someone without having to look at them, a prickling of the skin when someone was hovering over him, but not quite touching. The air remained as warm in the cab as it had been before, however, and Jim didn't speak. 

Sherlock kept his thoughts carefully blank. He watched buildings and people go by, filling his mind with the white noise of pointless deductions. He didn't know where Jim had gone, but it didn't seem to matter. The spirit's silence told him what he needed to know.

The cab dropped Sherlock off at a nearby corner. The detective paid him and took off at a brisk walk, turning the collar of his coat up and ducking in order to try to avoid recognition. There was a small pub near the abandoned building, but he couldn't risk waiting in there. Not only might he be recognized, but Jim might take it upon himself to try to cause trouble, either by forcing him to say something insulting or by throwing objects around.

Sherlock picked the doors to the meeting place open without trouble and let himself inside.

_"Why so suddenly clandestine Sherlock?"_ Jim whispered. _"Giving Lestrade the slip, so carefully quiet.... One might think you're up to something."_ Interesting that Jim hadn't assumed he was simply trying to ignore the spirit. Perhaps Jim thought he knew Sherlock better than that. 

_"I don't like being trapped or kept on a leash, no matter who's holding it. I'm not going to stay put simply because Lestrade said so."_ Sherlock took a sip of coffee from the travel mug he'd brought and used the extra time to look around. The inside of the station was gutted for the most part, wallpaper and paint alike peeling in strips off the walls. Evidently other groups had made use of the space before: suspicious stains and piles of rags were strewn about in several corners, and leaflets from Occupy London lay abandoned on the ground.

_"Your choice of hidey-holes has seen better days,"_ Jim mused and then, as though he’d chosen to drop his suspicions altogether, switched tracks. _"Would you like to play a game?"_ The question was spontaneous, excited. _"I'd like to, and I think you'd be the very best partner. What do you say?"_

Sherlock blinked in surprise. A thread of suspicion wound through him, as Jim being excited about something usually didn't bode well. _"That depends. What sort of game did you have in mind?"_

_"I managed to do the most interesting thing the other day. With you. I'd like to try it again."_ At first it sounded like Jim was referring to their 'experiences' in Sherlock's mind palace, but then Sherlock felt his hand twitch. And then he was speaking, without his own voice. "Wouldn't you like to see what else I can do?"

Sherlock felt a jolt of panic from losing control of his own voice again. He flexed his hands to make certain nothing else had lost control. "Not particularly, if the end result is you physically manipulating me like a puppet. Besides, every time you exert yourself, you tap into me like a battery. I'm exhausted, particularly in that you're not letting me sleep."

_"Even if I promise to be gentle?"_ Sherlock could hear the smirk in Jim's voice, but the spirit did back off. Whatever hold he'd had over the electrical impulses firing to Sherlock's muscles, he released it. If Sherlock had to guess, he would say that taking control like that was tiring on Jim, too. Especially when he had to fight Sherlock to do it. Instead of force, however, Sherlock felt a pleasantly warm sensation trail down his back. 

Sherlock laughed bitterly. "Right. You, gentle and trustworthy." For all Sherlock knew, Jim wanted to test his limits to see if he could takeover completely. It wouldn't be difficult for the man to destroy what remained of Sherlock's reputation that way. Or force him to take a walk off a bridge. "I'd be more inclined to listen if I didn't know that friendly gestures from you tend to hide daggers."

_"Hmm, fair enough."_ The pleasant warmth didn't stop moving slowly up and down Sherlock's spine though, so close it felt like it was just beneath the skin. _"But you might want to start planning for the future. After all, my loyal Sebastian might pop up at any moment looking for another shot at you. You might, say, need a little help convincing him you're worth keeping around. Because something tells me you won't be able to do that on your own."_

That comment did give Sherlock pause. He began to wonder just how tied Jim might really be. Something about the ghost's tone sounded confident that Sebastian was going to return soon. It easily could have been a bluff to try to manipulate him, or his earlier silence might have indicated that Jim hadn't gone dormant, but had gone _out_. 

"You weren't interested in convincing him to keep me alive before."

_"No, I wasn't,"_ Jim laughed, _"But you know how I change my mind."_ Jim’s warmth slipped deeper, in through Sherlock’s back and settling somewhere in his ribcage, heating him from the inside out. It was quite a pleasant sensation considering the chill of the empty building. The only thing the walls of the old Shoreditch Police Station kept out anymore was the wind. _"I can convince him you and I are tied, one and the same even, much faster than you can. And you know what a moment's difference can make with a killer like my Seb."_

"If you can change your mind that quickly, you can easily change it back again." Sherlock had to admit that the warmth was nice, but he couldn't forget who was putting it there. "You want something. You're not this pleasant unless you want something. I'm not going to agree to anything unless I think you're being honest with me."

_"Alright..."_ Jim's voice was soft in his ear again, like they were lying in bed instead of the middle of an abandoned station in the dreary city chill. _"I want to see what I can do inside you...as it were. I could speak, even with you fighting me, but it was so much easier when you weren't expecting it. I want to make you breathe. I want to move your hands. I want to walk in your shoes. I want to feel what it's like to be Sherlock Holmes."_

"To what purpose? So you can take my choices away with a new and exciting method? So I have to beg you and let you do things to me, not just to keep living, but to be allowed to control my own body?" Perhaps it _was_ simply Jim’s desire to live again. If he couldn't have his own form, taking over Sherlock's would do, but Sherlock had never known Jim Moriarty to do anything without several ulterior motives.

Jim laughed as though it were nothing. _"We've already established you can fight me. No need to worry about me taking over your body against your will, at least not completely. No. I'm simply doing you've asked me to do,"_ The warmth in Sherlock's chest spread. _"I'm asking for your…permission."_

Sherlock froze. He couldn't deny that that was certainly true. It was also a good sign, if Jim had actually changed his mind for the better. Sherlock truly didn't want to get rid of Jim if another solution could be found; it was only desperation that had driven him to explore this avenue. The question was, could Jim actually be trusted, even this far? It seemed too simple, and Jim was too full of sweet words and warm touches. "...what exactly are you wanting to try?"

Silence met Sherlock's question. At first it seemed as though Jim might be about to word his answer in a way that might persuade Sherlock, but then it stretched. Sherlock could hear traffic and pedestrians on the street below, but he couldn't hear Jim. 

_"What avenue are you exploring here, Sherlock?"_ Jim whispered. The warmth he created in Sherlock's chest grew cold. _"What's this about getting rid of me?"_

Sherlock cursed in his head, then realized Jim could hear that too. _"You weren't giving me other options and didn't seem open to my requests to deal with me fairly. I don't want to destroy you, but I don't want you destroying me either. Whether in the form of outright murder or you tormenting me in various ways until I crack and finally commit suicide like you've always wanted."_

_"And what did you **do**?"_ Jim was prowling through Sherlock's head now, digging up memory, rewinding through their conversation like an old videotape, watching Sherlock walk backwards down the street, get into the cab, escape from his flat, and, there it was. The phone call. Jim sat in silence as the memory of Sherlock's conversation with Chris played out before them. 

Until he cut it off. 

And Jim _laughed_. Jim laughed like a gunshot in Sherlock's ear. If he'd been standing next to Sherlock, he'd have been doubling over with it. 

Sherlock ignored the sound for as long as he could, but he was at the end of his rope. The last of his patience and emotional stability frayed. Jim was dead, and he still held most of the cards, and any attempt Sherlock made to defend himself or enforce boundaries ended in violence or violation and mockery. He couldn't even strike back at the spirit to vent some of his rage. "...I hate you," he whispered. He felt like a child again, utterly impotent and hiding from his problems in a corner.

_"Oh Sherlock,_ " Jim gasped. _"You were the one who went to **Ghost Chasers**."_ He suffered another fit of giggles before it began to die down. Sherlock got the vision of Jim, lying on his back in Sherlock's head, not having even the fortitude to keep his imaginary self standing. _"Let them come. I'll even do a little dance. Would you like that? You must be desperate."_

Sherlock got to his feet. He wanted to withdraw, but there was nowhere to go. There was simply no place he could turn where Jim couldn't touch him or talk to him or pull his strings. Coming here _had_ been an act of desperation, and a foolish one. 

Sherlock started walking and he could feel his mind slipping into disjointed static, something that hadn't happened for many years. Such a state had only happened when distress of some sort or another had pushed him past endurance. Pieces of his mind shut off like a fuse had blown in order to shield the more delicate parts, but what was left operational were only the flat, bare-bones essentials.

Jim turned silent in his head. If the lights had gone out where the spirit had been residing, he didn't complain. And he didn't leave. Sherlock could still feel the subtle weight of his presence. 

Just as Sherlock was exiting back onto the street, a trio was coming down the opposite way. They were hampered by their own luggage, heavy duffel bags and gadgetry and laptops in arms, and were too distracted in their conversation and finding the entrance to the building to notice him. Barely a glance was needed to tell that these scruffy, offbeat techies were the professional investigators he'd called. 

Sherlock didn't wait around. A quick, detached examination was enough to confirm the hunch he'd had - these men had no expertise. They treated spirit chasing like a hobby rather than a science, more interested in social bonding with one another and getting access to unusual locations for urban exploration than in actually developing and testing theories. They would be no more helpful than the internet forums full of dreamers and misfits he'd stumbled across earlier.

Sherlock walked away from the building, searching for a cab.

The sky opened up above him and let down drop after drop of a light drizzle. Beads of it caught in his hair and dripped down his forehead and caught under the collar of his coat. The chill in the air seemed all the worse for it. Jim remained quiet in his head, but while Sherlock waited on the kerb, watching for a cab in the distance, he felt the subtle warmth in his chest, when Jim had been trying to manipulate and persuade him, flicker back to life. 

It got no response. Sherlock might as well have been a walking automaton. He could certainly feel the sensation, but there was no ripple of emotion in reaction - no fear, no anger, no softening. Jim had dropped a stone into a pool only for it to disappear and leave the surface as smooth and characterless as a pane of glass.

Sherlock finally managed to get a cabbie's attention and gave him instructions back to Baker Street. He slipped into the back seat without another word.

Slowly, Jim's presence faded, retreating by degrees until Sherlock's mind was aware of him no longer. It was possible he had left, as he seemed to have done before. Even in death, Jim got bored, and apparently Sherlock being boring was the only thing that drove him away. But Jim would return. Sherlock wouldn't be boring forever, and Jim would eventually need to recharge. Unless he could acquire his energy from other sources. 

It was nearly an hour before Sherlock climbed over the rooftops and slipped back in through the upper bedroom window at 221 Baker Street. He was utterly drenched, shivering with a cold that saturated both body and mind. He was back at square one and without any notions of how to proceed. 

He was about to descend the stairs when a creak of the floorboards below penetrated the haze filling his mind. Someone was in his flat.

Sherlock crept around the corner and tiptoed down the stairs to try to get a glimpse of the intruder. 

There in the sitting room John Watson turned around, brows raised and hands idly ringing one another. He smiled like Sherlock had only just come down from upstairs when John had been looking for him, but his face fell quickly after. 

" _Sherlock_ ," John moved quickly to his side like he was ready to catch Sherlock should he tip over. He must have looked awful to get such reaction. "Were you just outside? You've got the Met on watch outside your flat. I just wanted to stop by. They let me in... What...what happened to you?"

"I..." Sherlock didn't know what to say, suddenly confronted with the past like this. His mind was thrown into disarray. John was here, looking just the same as he always did in Sherlock's memories, right down to his shapeless jumper and the way his hand clenched and unclenched when he was concerned. Sherlock's fragile state nearly broke again; he knew John wouldn't be staying. Those days were past. "It's... a long story. I went out for some air, but it didn't really help."

John gaped like a fish. "And why are there Met officers posted outside the flat?" He took Sherlock by the elbow. "Here, just, sit. Let me... I'll get you some tea." He looked like he was about to help Sherlock with his coat, but it was too awkward. And John, as always, knew his aborted gesture was enough to tell Sherlock to take off his own coat because John was worried about him. It was a strange little dance they did. Familiar and yet all the more uncomfortable for it. For the inherent distance therein. 

Sherlock struggled out of the sodden garment and hung it on a hook by the door. The rest of his clothing was equally soaked and clung to him. Sherlock took a seat on his leather chair and tried to ignore the small pattering sounds as droplets fell from his wet curls. "There are officers outside the flat because Moriarty had a pet assassin who blames me for his death and has tried to kill me a few times in the past two days. Or that's the excuse, at any rate."

John's head and shoulders leaned out of the kitchen. "Whoa, _what_?” He looked flabbergasted with two empty mugs in his hands. "You didn't call me? Someone, _Moriarty's_ someone, tried to kill you and you didn't call me? Who is this guy?" 

The distinct sound of water boiling and simmering in the kettle didn't turn John's attention. 

"It was for a complicated case. I'm sure the Bas-Congo virus warning was all over the news. Moriarty's old employee sent me a sealed canister with infected tissue, posing as Moriarty, then separated me from the rest of the Met while we were chasing down leads in order to try to get revenge." Sherlock glanced up and backpedaled a bit when he spotted John's hurt and angry gaze. "He didn't succeed, obviously. And I could hardly call you in on a case like this, with everything that's going on in your life."

John's mouth opened first to argue, then in incredulity, and then finally shut. He saw the reason behind Sherlock's assessment, but he still wanted to fight it. Instead, he sidestepped the subject altogether. "So Moriarty's not back from the dead, then. It was this guy all along?" 

John took a deep breath and turned back to the tea. He re-entered with two steaming mugs in hand, remembering the way Sherlock liked his. 

"The virus scare was all this individual's attempt at mimicking Moriarty's style, yes. And unfortunately, he got away and is likely to have fled the country by now, which means he'll make another go at it in the future. Of that, I have no doubt." Sherlock accepted his mug and tried to pretend that John sitting across from him didn't have such an effect on him. It make him ache and want to stare, recording every detail. Tying him down and insisting that he become a flatmate again wasn't to be done, particularly as it would hurt Mary's feelings, and Sherlock rather liked her, both on her own merits and because John loved her. "But the epidemic crisis has been averted for the moment."

"You said he was out to get you for..." John's eyes trailed down to Sherlock's collar and caught there. John tilted his head, a frown forming between the lines of his brows as though an idea were emerging in his mind, but he hadn’t quite grasped it yet. Until he did. "Sherlock. You've got a, a mark on your neck...." John's hand had half raised, like Sherlock wouldn't have already known he was referring to the bandage that was slipping down his collar bone, sodden with the rain.

Sherlock's hand whipped up to cover the patch of skin, and he winced when the pressure was just a touch too hard. "Ah... yes." His gaze dropped until he was no longer looking at John directly, but his reflection captured within the mug. He could feel his face coloring again, which only made him angry at himself. It was easy to fake emotions when they didn't touch him, but damnably hard to hide them when they ran this deep. "It's not infected. I'll be fine."

"Wha--? Sherlock, that looks like a _bite mark_." John's mug hit the coffee table and he was closing the space between them in seconds. He was on the floor, sidling between Sherlock and the table, on his knees, and very intent to get a closer inspection of the wound. 

Sherlock moved backwards so quickly his chair toppled over and, graceless for once, he tripped over it and followed suit. He hit the ground in a pile of awkward, gangly limbs, but kept one hand pressed to his neck even then. The reaction had been instinctive, automatic, but Sherlock realized even John wasn't so daft as to fail to read between the lines. 

"...I'm well aware what it looks like."

John was left blinking, bent half over the upturned chair, having tried to catch Sherlock and realizing midway through that Sherlock had flung himself back to get away from him. Utter disbelief was written across John’s face. It was more than obvious after that display that Sherlock didn't want to be coddled, but John didn’t look like he could bring himself to move back either.

"What. ...Sherlock, what happened?"

"It doesn't matter. There's nothing to be done about it, anyways." Sherlock was cursing himself for being so foolish. Foolish for leaving the flat in the first place, foolish for not immediately heading to the loo to dry off and fix his clothing when he got the chance. It said something about his state of mind that he was frazzled enough to make these mistakes. 

John's shock was turning into that warm empathy Sherlock had always valued, but it burned now that he was the focus of it within this context. Worse still because of the way Sherlock had felt, all of those thoughts and emotions left unsaid the moment he'd returned to find that John had moved on and found happiness elsewhere.

John swallowed. Sherlock was trying to pull himself together. John was trying to pull himself together, too. He looked like his world had just tipped sideways. 

"Right. Okay. Let's. Let's get you cleaned up and dried off." John pushed himself to a crouch, holding his hand out for Sherlock to grasp. If Sherlock didn't want to talk, then John wasn't going to force him. Not outright. John's way was to break him down little by little. It worked in the past, on the oddest of things, but lately there simply wasn't enough time shared between them for that kind of patience. But it was John's nature and he would try it still. Soft, yet firm. "You've spoken to someone about this?"

Sherlock looked at the offered hand and took it a heartbeat later, letting John pull him back to his feet. Even that simple touch made him feel better. "...Lestrade took me to the hospital," Sherlock grudgingly admitted. He didn't want to tell John that it had been because he was doubting Sherlock's sobriety, and not because of trauma from an assault. John led him down the hall to the lavatory and Sherlock trailed numbly behind him. He refused to let go of John's hand.

It was a little awkward when John tried to open the cabinets for clean towels, but he managed. "You never bother with the laundry anymore, do you?" He muttered, finding just one in the lot and having to make do with it and a couple used ones. "C'mon, sit." He maneuvered Sherlock to sit at the toilet while John dried his hair and shoulders. He looked about for a dry shirt, Sherlock sometimes left them lying around the bathroom, but was out of luck. "Do you want me to...take a look at that?"

Sherlock was at a loss. He'd always enjoyed John making a fuss over him, in the way that was uniquely John: warm, kind, truly concerned but not overbearing. It was a pleasure just to have him there, and doubly so to have him close and willingly touching him. Less thrilling was letting the doctor see what had happened. Logic told him that John had already seen it and the damage was done, and Sherlock sighed and nodded assent. Better to be certain it wasn't going to get infected than risk it and have to submit himself to the questioning eyes of strangers.

It took John a moment of consideration, but he got down on his knees. The last thing he would do was loom over Sherlock. Like that, he had to reach up to remove the rest of Sherlock's bandage, which was already so loose it was practically painless. Indeed the bite marks were not deep, but there was purpling around the skin. It looked worse than it actually was, but John feared he could not say that for the rest of Sherlock. 

"Good news is it doesn't look like there'll be any infection. Hospital will run the tests for anything else, viruses, that sort, but again it's not very likely." John swallowed. Neither he nor Sherlock could quite look directly at the other. "He uhm...this was the only place he hurt you?"

"Nothing that would show physical evidence." Sherlock still felt conflicted about everything else that had happened. Everything had been coerced, for certain, and Sherlock hadn't wanted what had happened to him until everything had become blurred. His body had found release and he hadn't fought back, but he'd also had a death threat over his head, and the concern that something worse would happen to him if he resisted too much. Touching Moriarty, on the whole, hadn't been nearly as troubling as being touched.

Even out of the corner of Sherlock's eye, John's face was pained. 

" _Shit_ ," John bit his lips and held back what was probably a torrent of aggravation he wanted to let out. "Of all the... _why_?" He bit off his words again. It was obvious John was already blaming himself for not being there, for not only missing out on a huge case right after the supposed return of Moriarty, but for letting his best friend go through _this_. With guilt as a firm motivator, he finally worked up the nerve to look at Sherlock, and Sherlock knew he didn't look much better than when he'd first walked down the stairs. 

"Obsession for a number of years, or so I was told. And revenge, most likely." Sherlock could feel John's eyes on him, but he didn't look back. Couldn't. The detective shook his head. "It doesn't matter. There's nothing to be done about it now, anyways." Nothing that John or Greg could do, or anyone else Sherlock was acquainted with. Anyone who knew how to deal with ghosts was hidden, drowned out by a veritable sea of charlatans and daydreamers.

John sighed heavily, blasting air through his nostrils like an angry dragon. With supplies from Sherlock's cupboard, he set about disinfecting the wound again and making a new bandage. "So what makes you think he's left the country instead of hiding out and waiting for that second chance?" 

John had to be asking himself why the gunman hadn't killed Sherlock when he'd had the first chance, especially after Sherlock had come out of it looking like this. 

"...the assassin isn't suicidal. With all the law enforcement personnel trying to track him down for attempting to cause an epidemic, he’ll go to ground somewhere out of reach before trying again. The fact that he's on tape hand-delivering both the corpse pieces and the tainted inoculation supplies means that he doesn't have a support network to hide behind. He's by himself." As far as Sherlock was concerned, Sebastian was the least of his worries at the moment. He'd have to survive Jim first.

John put the finishing touches on his bandage and let Sherlock move his head to test it. It held as comfortably as possible. In truth, he didn't necessarily need a bandage, but John would know it was more about hiding the evidence than anything else. 

"If anyone can track him down, it's us," John said as he began putting the supplies away, making sure to put emphasis on the 'us' part of that statement. What he really meant was Sherlock, but he wanted Sherlock to know that he'd be there. "C'mon. Up you get. When was the last time you slept?"

Sherlock started laughing. He couldn't help it, then found he couldn't quite stop. The room wavered and John was suddenly there, having ducked under his arm to steady him. Close physical touch was enough to shock him out of hysterics. "Several hours ago, very briefly and not...well. Not for almost three days, now." 

Sherlock hadn't realized it had been quite so long. Preoccupation with everything, fatigue, and the bizarre dreams that weren't really dreams had started to warp his sense of time.

"When the case started?" John guessed, leading Sherlock carefully out of the bathroom. That bite mark did not look three days old. John took a moment to maneuver them around the door. Supporting his weight wasn’t easy. Thin as he looked, there was still a lot of Sherlock to carry. John sidled them into the bedroom and got Sherlock seated on his bed. 

Sherlock went oddly rigid at the end. He tugged the sheets up higher on the bed when he thought John wasn't paying attention. "Yes, around the time that it started. I wasn't feeling well when this whole chain of events kicked off. Before you ask, no, I didn't catch the Bas-Congo virus. Obviously." Sherlock was glad John was there, truly, but he wished the doctor wasn't so inquisitive.

The frown was back on John's face as he reached for the light, sorting through the many and varied causes of Sherlock's sudden restlessness, and since it was Sherlock, the endeavor was nearly impossible. When he turned back he was already in the middle of a shrug and the beginnings of a request for Sherlock to just try one more time to get some rest... before he paused. His face fell. His eyes narrowed at something...on the bed sheets. "....Sherlock..."

Sherlock immediately knew from the tone of John's voice that he'd noticed. He prepared for rejection in the only way he knew, his back going rigid, chin lifted at a haughty and aggressive angle. It was a look he'd given many detractors over the years, particularly certain members of the Met. Sherlock made himself untouchable, at least on the outside - either his opponents became too intimidated to try anything, or he'd damn well make certain they hurt in return. "...yes, John? Is something wrong?"

John closed his mouth. Sherlock could see the thoughts flickering across his face in rapid succession, plain as day. John could identify evidence of sexual activity when he saw it, and even though he had never encountered such a thing in Sherlock's bedroom before, it wasn't completely out of the question. After all, he hadn't spent a lot of time in Sherlock's bedroom in the past. Just because his mind jumped to conclusions when he saw it now, ones having to do with the man who'd spread the virus breaking in and attacking Sherlock right here in his own bed, didn't mean they were at all credible. There was no way that scenario made sense, and so, John had to conclude that it was a matter he didn't need to bring up. 

"No. Nothing." John straightened his back. Still...an ounce of doubt gnawed at him. "But if you...would rather nap on the couch, that's fine. I've got to step out anyway. But I'll be back, all you have to do is call," he amended. 

Sherlock stayed silent and defensive for another moment before softening a bit around the edges. John had dropped it, and he hadn't meant anything other than that he was concerned, so far as Sherlock could tell. For a toughened soldier, John was both surprisingly kindhearted and delicate when a situation called for it, which was more than could be said for his own self. "Alright. I'll give you a call if I need to."

"Do. I mean it," John said seriously. "I'll stay for a little while. And I'll make sure Mrs. Hudson checks in on you." John's posture said he knew he was maybe being a little too worried, but they had never ventured into this territory before. If Sherlock were physically injured, he would have done the same. Albeit with a few less nerves. "Right. Get some rest." John moved to the door, turning one last time. 

Sherlock looked a bit lost when John glanced back, but he was silent and made no move to stop John from leaving. 

When the door closed Sherlock carded fingers through his hair in frustration. John would try to comfort him, even if he'd simultaneously decide that Sherlock had gone completely mad, but he'd be powerless to actually _do_ anything about it. Worse, keeping John close might actually make him a target. Sherlock had a truce with Jim right now, but it didn't shield anyone else from death or harm.

With that in mind, Sherlock toppled over bonelessly and stared at the ceiling.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning in this chapter for an explicit scene with underage Sherlock. For those who want to skip it, you can stop reading at “Sherlock was quiet and still for several seconds.” and pick back up again at “Jim's cheek rested against the top of Sherlock's head”

_"Well that was dull."_ The voice came like a spider crawling into his ear before awareness of Jim's presence. Suddenly he was there, all around Sherlock, that familiar feeling that Jim was standing over him if only just out of sight. Sherlock got the impression that Jim was biting back more than a single comment on the matter of John and his good bedside manners. 

_"So sorry to subject you to witnessing that I do, in fact, have both emotions and a friend. He's not a genius by any stretch, but his other qualities more than make up for it."_ Sherlock's eyes searched the room, but not a shadow was spotted. Jim's presence was almost tangible, but completely invisible. _"Where are you going, anyways? Digging in my head for more information to torment me with? Or getting the sleep you're not permitting me to have?"_

Jim laughed in a breath. _"You can sleep, Sherlock. You're more than welcome to, in fact. If only you weren't so reluctant to see me again."_ There was a smile in Jim's voice, but he did sound more...calm, than he usually did. Like he was tired, himself. Or like he really was giving Sherlock's request for decent treatment a hesitant try. Or, most likely of all, he wanted something. 

_"Yes, because it's been extremely restful, getting threatened and manipulated into certain activities and then tossed aside once you're satisfied."_ Sherlock hadn't really wanted that sort of contact in the first place, and everything that had happened had thrown him into disarray about... everything. He'd enjoyed it, and also hadn't. He was questioning everything he'd assumed about human sexuality and his own identity within that sphere. He'd wanted nothing more to do with Jim... and had also felt incredibly hurt to be abandoned.

Sherlock sensed a pause in the air, in the presence that was Jim, wherever he was. _"Tossed aside? Is that how you feel?"_ Sherlock felt a tugging inside him. Some part of his core was sinking down into the bed, like he was falling through his own body. A lurch of g-force. His eyelids turning heavy. His mind spiraling after until suddenly, he awoke to the dreamscape of his mind palace. In the familiar cabin of his childhood. And there Jim was, sitting on the edge of the bed, one knee up and one planted on the floor, impeccably dressed as ever. "What else did you expect?"

Sherlock gasped and rocked on his feet. His mind raced and tried to make sense of what had just happened. Realization finally clicked and generated a look of horror; Jim had pulled him under. He hadn't fallen asleep naturally from fatigue.

Jim wasn't just reading his mind, haunting his body and stalking his dreams, he could also drag Sherlock into a more vulnerable state whenever he wanted.

Sherlock's hands clenched. "Apparently, too much. You regard me as a diversion instead of a person, whatever unique category I happen to occupy within your mind." The room was changing as he spoke - or rather, his mind was recalling the memory and shifting himself to match it. Even his voice changed pitch towards the end.

Varied emotions flashed across Jim's face, from what looked like annoyance to dismissal to curiosity and finally, to interest. Without moving a muscle more, Jim held out his hand, palm up, beckoning Sherlock forward. 

"Do you know how much you ask of me?" Jim's voice was soft velvet, but any indifference he'd had before was gone. "You ask me for comfort and you don't find that ironic in the slightest?" Jim's head cocked, a smile ghosting over his lips, but it was an uncertain one. He was deflecting and Sherlock could see it. Jim was the one who didn't want to offer comfort, and yet there was his hand.

Sherlock glanced between Jim's palm and face in suspicion. He wanted to be treated with basic human dignity, but he knew that it was unlikely from the other man, and the offer made him nervous. Retrieving past constructive emotions hadn't made Jim predisposed to softer treatment or more courtesy, after all. 

"I don't see how my basic requests are unreasonable." Sherlock frowned at how childish his voice sounded to his own ears in this memory, with this small body. "I'm the one trapped with you reading my mind, deciding to kill me or pull me under on a whim."

Jim's smile widened with a touch of amusement. "Remember _who_ you're asking." He ducked his head and raised his eyebrows, pointedly outstretching his hand just a little farther, unwilling to let it drop. Jim's smile turned a little more intent. "Let me make our last encounter up to you. I won't do anything you don't like." 

Sherlock knew better than to expect. Moriarty had always been all razor edges and hair trigger springs - beautiful, delicate, but quick and very deadly. It was that fascination that had made Sherlock first decide to dance with him and play his game rather than immediately striving to take him down. The same draw that had made him rebuild a mental simulacrum from shards of the puzzle when he was alone in the field. Even Jim's murderous or sexual intentions weren't enough to combat that completely. 

Large grey eyes, reset in a child's face and framed with dark curls, looked back at Jim with more than a touch of fear, but a small hand hesitantly laid itself in his palm.

Jim's whole face changed as he sighed, his fingers closing around Sherlock's. He might have been Richard Brook again had Sherlock not noticed an undercurrent of delight thrumming in Jim's pulse and a certain light in his eyes. He reeled Sherlock in slowly, as that was the only way he would move, until his legs hit the bed. One of Jim's arms wrapped around his waist, eyes fixed on him all the while, and he was lifted into Jim's lap. 

The delight in Jim's eyes had seemed like innocence before only because it was real. Sherlock could see there was no innocence whatsoever in Jim now. 

Still, Jim sat back on the bed, letting his arms twine around Sherlock’s waist loosely. Jim wouldn't stop staring, but he didn't try anything else. "Is this what you would have liked?"

Sherlock's spike of fear dissipated very, very slowly. Jim was undoubtedly interested, but he wasn't doing anything yet. Sherlock felt a gentle pressure where he was being held, but no more.

"...I don't know." Sherlock raised his eyes but didn't quite meet Jim's gaze, looking instead at all the details around it - pale skin, delicate mouth, sleek black hair, the matching bite mark stark against the man's neck. "I don't know about any of this."

Jim's smile curled and his head cocked almost playfully. "Are you sure you're not trying to indulge my fantasies?" His hand lifted and brushed a stray curl out of Sherlock's eyes. "I can't tell whether I've gone to heaven when I have you like this." He was laughing under his breath, but he seemed to be laughing at himself more than anything. At Sherlock's frown, Jim tightened his grip and shifted back on the bed, swinging his legs up until his back rested against the headboard and he could spread out with Sherlock still there. All of a sudden, he grew serious. "Are you lonely, Sherlock?"

The boy's frown deepened and his eyes grew distant in thought. He hadn't thought about it like that before, but he also didn't know what loneliness was supposed to feel like. He was used to being alone - or had been. He'd never really had friends before, during childhood or any of his years in school. Other relationships were work acquaintances, or people he had trading arrangements with of some sort or another. Mrs. Hudson was a former client who didn't really understand him. Lestrade tried to be a father figure and a friend, but Sherlock wouldn't let him get too close. His relationship with Mycroft was strained for a myriad of reasons.

Sherlock had found something new with John - a constant presence nearby, a sense of comfort, familiar touches and smells, someone who liked and accepted him as he was and not as he was wished to be. Now that was gone, and his loyal shadow had been replaced by a wraith.

Sherlock had paused for far too long. His silence was telling, and when he realized it a heartbeat later, he ducked his head.

Jim's head ducked to follow, pressing his brow to Sherlock's temple, but he was still smiling and it gave him away. "That's too bad," he whispered softly, squeezing Sherlock's middle in what might have been a reassuring gesture. Jim delighted in Sherlock's loneliness. Jim _needed_ it. 

...and that made sense. Even more than before, Jim was cut off from the rest of the world. He’d want Sherlock to be as well.

Jim's hand, finely boned for a man, carded through Sherlock's hair and he shivered. He hadn't forgotten what had happened only several hours ago, but on a certain level that didn't matter. Jim's hand was warm, and quite gentle at the moment, and stroking in just the right way to set off nerve endings and leave Sherlock's skin tingling. He'd tried not to think about it, tried to divert the emptiness into other places in his mind, but Sherlock's body had gotten used to casual, affectionate touches when John had lived with him. They'd been missed when he was gone, and one of the things he'd been looking forward to when he'd returned. What he'd received was few and far between and the intervening years had only made part of him hungrier.

Sherlock found himself leaning into the touch without thinking.

It was impossible for Jim not to notice, evidenced by the little sigh of satisfaction that escaped his lips. Jim's hand didn't stop. It trailed lower, stroking down the delicate skin of Sherlock's neck while the man turned boy was staring ahead in what looked like stoicism but they both knew was anything but. Jim's head turned. He place a soft kiss to Sherlock's temple, right where the silky strands of hair began, and when Sherlock didn't pull away or give any other immediate reaction, Jim shifted. He laid them down on the bed, Sherlock still wrapped in his arms, and settled there just stroking Sherlock's soft skin. His eyes never left Sherlock's face, like Jim couldn't get enough. Whatever fantasies he'd had since Sherlock's discovery of Carl Powers were merging with reality. 

This, Sherlock was alright with. 

More than alright - drops of affection hitting the bottom of the void inside him only made him realize just how much the emptiness had grown. Ignoring it hadn't made it diminish into something more manageable and it had been eating at him whenever he took on a case alone or came back to an empty flat.

Sherlock's eyes closed for a few moments. He concentrated on what he was feeling, the way Jim's hands just glided across his skin. Fingertips brushed down his jawline and across his lips, and when Sherlock reopened his eyes he found Jim right there, staring.

"I couldn't believe you didn't understand me on that rooftop," Jim said softly. "You told your friends and your family a different story when you came back... But you played the game with me so well back then. I could see you loved it." Jim's touches didn't stop. "And that was the only way you could have beaten me. You would have _joined_ me otherwise. You weren't faking. But they pulled you away in the end, didn't they? You gave up so much for them and when you came back...all you did was keep giving. Playing the best man, playing the forgiving friend, playing _normal_."

"...exactly how long have you been watching?" Clearly, Jim had been around for some time after his death if he'd seen all that. Sherlock flushed, remembering how poorly some people had taken his return, his desperate manipulations to try to get John to verbally forgive him. His attempts to fight down his sadness and jealousy so he wouldn't destroy John's happiness with Mary, and the brief hope he'd had upon learning about her betrayals before he'd realized that it didn't matter. Even then, John would decide to forgive her, would keep loving her, because that was who John was. And Sherlock had stepped aside again, helped them heal as best he could, and been prepared to end everything when they'd confronted Magnussen. He hadn't really wanted to die, or be jailed for the rest of his life, but emotion had overwhelmed everything else.

"I was there for Siberia. And let me tell you, your brother wasn't the only one who got a bit of a show." Jim smiled, speaking right against Sherlock's cheek. "It's difficult to say, exactly. Awareness came by degrees. Control also. _I was so angry,_ " Jim whispered in a breath. "I still am. But.... But." His fingers remained gentle, and his voice softened in turn. "You have a certain effect on me." 

Sherlock absorbed this in silence. He wondered if Jim had been able to pluck the thoughts out of his head during the same duration of time, and his cheeks flushed with color again. "Because of who I am, to you? Or because I look like this?" He hadn't missed the fact that, twice now, Jim had become noticeably more gentle at the same time that he became more aroused.

Jim's small laugh was warm against Sherlock's ear. "Both." He didn't take offence to the suggestion this time. Sherlock hadn't stated it as an accusation. "Such a perfect combination you make like this, such beauty and such intelligence. And I never expected to see it again." With a finger, Jim turned Sherlock's head to look at him. Sherlock's assessment hadn't been wrong. Affection mixed with arousal in Jim's eyes, a significant change to how Sherlock often encountered him in life even though Jim's obsession with him had always been there. Had never truly left, rather, if the seed had been planted over two decades prior. 

"Why?" Sherlock asked, even though he knew Jim might not be able to articulate an exact reason. He had the same problem in his own mind whenever he tried to question himself and pinpoint what had drawn him back to the Jim he'd constructed even when he'd had no strategic use for his missions. Or why, precisely, he'd put his hand in Jim's even after he felt raw and hurt from what they'd done earlier. "I've been a disappointment to you. You've said as much."

Jim went quiet at first. His eyes fell in thought. There was no denying that. It was true, Jim had become very disillusioned with what Sherlock was now. But. "I wasn't wrong about you. Even though that's true. ...you do have the potential to be so much more than what you've decided to be when you bend to all these people in your life. Sentiment, Sherlock. Isn't that what your brother said?" Jim must have plucked that out of his memory. He must have plucked quite a lot of things by now with all his rifling. After a moment more, Jim decided to address Sherlock's original question. "I told you from the very beginning, you were the only one like me I ever found. A match."

Sherlock nodded. He could accept that. He'd never found anyone close to who he was other than Jim and, to a certain extent, his brother. "I tried to be Mycroft for such a long time, then decided I didn't want to after what he turned into. Sentiment can be a strength as well as a weakness, but a complete lack has... consequences." He hadn't wanted restraint, order, or to be completely beyond connection. Humanity still drew him in even as it repelled him. 

Jim's smile quirked, seeming to catch the nuance about Sherlock's brother. "Yes." 

Jim did not yearn for restraint and order by any means. Even the last, disconnection, Jim had at times both embraced and searched beyond. For Sherlock and Sherlock alone, he had come out of hiding after he'd built an empire on anonymity. That was how he'd been untouchable, and yet he'd broken it. 

The movement caught Sherlock's eye and he turned. It seemed strange to be like this. Like he'd climbed into a shark tank and was holding his breath, suspended like a ghost while the tank's lone occupant gracefully circled, brushed up against him, and watched with a hungry eyes. Terrifying and beautiful all at once. Sherlock pondered everything he'd observed, everything Jim had said and what was omitted in the spaces between. "...you were lonely, too. You still are. You can't leave, can you?"

"I gave up on life. Of course I'm lonely." Jim's face held a bitter smile. "And no, I can't leave. I'm not sure I'd even want to. This," he raised a hand in the air like they would be able to see through it, "didn't solve anything. 'Rage quit' life, and all I got was limbo." Jim laughed to himself. He was very strange with his secrets, his emotions. He was honest and impenetrable at the flip of a switch. And now he was telling Sherlock things he would have probably never said in life. At least not to anyone but his obsession. Jim's thumb brushed Sherlock's plump lower lip. "But at least I still have you."

Sherlock knew it was dangerous, but he was touched. Something about Jim tugged at him, even knowing he might get torn to ribbons and hurt even more than he had been. Even despite the way Jim had tried killing him several times over - the pool, the fall, manipulating Sebastian, and then trying to squeeze the life out of his heart. "...you've given thought to what I said, then."

Jim's eyes fixed to Sherlock. He could see the leading question. And perhaps it was only because he was calm now, because there was a connection between them now, or because Sherlock was as small as he was, wrapped in Jim's arms and not pulling away, but Jim decided to answer him truthfully. "Yes. But I don't play nice, Sherlock. And I don't play by the rules, even for you. ...but I can be kind.” His thumb on Sherlock’s lip descended.

"Nice isn't what I asked for." Sherlock's pulse had picked back up. He felt like the shark had just taken the smallest nip at his leg, testing how helpless the prey might. "I don't want to be pushed into anything I don't truly want, or quicker than I can handle. Whatever that happens to be. People can be broken more ways than physically."

"Then tell me, can you handle a lot? How did you describe it... 'the two of us against the world, blood pumping through your veins'? Or are you going to hide away and let all the excitement pass you by?" Jim inched closer, but held back still. His gaze swept over Sherlock's features, assessing him. "You know me reasonably well by now. You tell me. Do you think you can handle me?"

Sherlock's pupils grew visibly larger. The boy's thoughts raced, touching briefly on old memories and trying to project where this might go. "...I'm not certain that I can. There are parts of you I understand fairly well, and I don't think those will be a problem." Violence, crime, gore... Sherlock was familiar with such things, but he didn't want Jim to take over his mind and force Sherlock into filling the void Jim had left behind in the criminal world. "...there are other- ...I have no experience in other areas. I don't know what I am."

Jim's pink tongue darted out to wet his lips. "Then let me help you discover." Jim paused and for a moment it seemed like he was doing a bit of his own soul searching. "And in that regard, I am willing to be as considerate as I am able." As if to reinforce the statement, his hand stroked Sherlock's hair gently, watching Sherlock carefully for signs of distress. His fingers curled in the ends of the strands, winding them around the tips and pulling them free, letting them bounce against Sherlock's soft cheek, the bone still prominently defining him in spite of his age. 

"Do I have much choice in the matter?" What they'd done before hadn't been physically unpleasant. The source of Sherlock's distress had been the coercion, the fact that he'd felt trapped and without a shred of control, unable to stop the proceedings... and the fact that it had thrown large portions of his identity into question. He'd sequestered himself away and decided that he was asexual and aromantic, and those carefully built walls had crumbled slightly upon meeting John, but Jim had ripped into them like a hurricane. Sherlock was left feeling confused and uncomfortably vulnerable. "If I tell you no, are you actually going to listen?"

Jim's eyes dropped. His hand stilled. It took him a long time to answer. "Yes. It's no fun if you're not playing." He sighed. "But keep in mind, if you push me away completely, then we go back to the way we were before. All bets are off." And the look in Jim's eye suggested very strongly that he would do his best to end it. Sherlock, firstly. Himself, if he had no luck with the former. He had nothing left. 

Sherlock was quiet and still for several seconds. His eyes never left Jim's face. He felt like he stood at the edge of a precipice, and no matter which way he chose, he was going to fall. A path with a sliver of hope was better than none at all, but the unknown still filled him with illogical fear that he couldn't quite shake. After another moment of steeling himself, Sherlock reached up to touch Jim's face, then pulled him down into an uncertain kiss.

Jim fell into it, melting the moment their mouths touched. His hands were back on Sherlock, one in his hair and one against his back, but Jim was gentle. If anything, Sherlock’s childlike form managed to bring out a more compassionate side of him, a side that didn't want to hold a part of himself back from Sherlock. A side that wouldn't push him away when he was finished. At least, Sherlock could only hope. The slight tremble in Jim's arms and the beat of his pulse reinforced this idea, however. 

Jim turned, pressing Sherlock down little by little, half atop his smaller body, but conscious enough to give him just enough space. 

Sherlock's felt spikes of panic, but they were eased with how slow this was going and how restrained Jim seemed. He still didn't know how far he was able to go beyond the familiar and comfortable, but he didn't feel out of control yet. Not even when Jim's hand slid from his hair to his neck, then dipped fingers underneath his collar. Touch like this was unfamiliar, but not entirely unwanted, because it wasn't truly sexual yet.

Jim began to pop the buttons of his shirt, one by one until his small chest was exposed. His skin was such a contrast to Jim's, unmarked by time, as Jim's hand trailed down his sternum. Even if it wasn't necessarily sexual for Sherlock yet, it obviously was for Jim. He gasped when their mouths parted. The hand at the back of Sherlock's head curled in his hair just to feel him. Jim seemed to be intent on feeling all of Sherlock that he could. And yet he was indeed restraining himself in his pace if not his intensity.

It was the intensity, and who Jim was, that left Sherlock feeling dizzy. The other man had been screaming at him, mocking him, trying to drag him into death, and now the spite and fury and vicious lust had turned into something almost worshipful. Sherlock was used to fixations from some corners of the media and various fans, but few of them had ever tried to cross the line and project their focus into physicality, and none of them held a candle to Jim. They were mundane, and that word could never be used for either Jim or himself.

Jim's hands lifted him, but only for a moment. Only enough to strip his shirt away. Gooseflesh immediately prickled up Sherlock's arms.

Then Jim's mouth was on his collarbone and the man’s body bent to cover Sherlock's, transferring warmth but not at all diminishing the little bumps that broke out over his skin. If anything, Jim made them worse. His mouth moved in a path of open kisses down Sherlock's chest and Jim only seemed to get warmer as he went. He sat up for a moment, fighting the suit jacket off his shoulders, and then he was back again and able to move much more freely. Not that he'd needed to cover a whole lot of space. Sherlock was so small. 

For the briefest moment, Jim laid his ear over Sherlock's chest, listening for his heart quickening, beating against his ribcage. Even in a dream and even as insubstantial as Jim was in reality, he wanted to feel that Sherlock was real. 

Jim's trail of kisses had made Sherlock’s mind jump to memories of what the man had done to him not so long ago. However he felt about trying such a thing again emotionally or psychologically, his body had decided it was _very_ interested, physically. Jim must have been close enough to feel his interest, as warmth hit his skin when the man laughed quietly. "...what are you going to do?" Sherlock whispered.

Dark eyes lifted to meet Sherlock's, crinkled lines at the edges giving away Jim's smile. That pink tongue made an appearance again. Just looking at Sherlock lying on his back, looking down his bare chest at Jim, eyes large, the lack of lines around them making his expression softer. The way his mouth remained just parted... 

Jim sucked in another breath. "I was hoping to suck you off." One of his hands smoothed down Sherlock's side, resting suggestively at his hip, thumb drawing a circle over the dip of flesh and bone. 

Sherlock's inner conflict spilled out into his expression; he was interested, and felt like he shouldn't be. He didn't think of himself as being sexual, or falling prey to needs like that. Jim was still filed away somewhere between enemy and fascination, but not trusted partner. It said something, as well, that Jim was especially interested in him in _this_ form. And something bizarre that Jim chose to be gentle when he was like this, rather than more predatory.

Part of Sherlock's dilemma resolved when moments passed and Jim didn't push. He was waiting patiently, dark eyes fixed on Sherlock's face while his thumb swirled in slow circles. Sherlock's lower lip trembled before he managed to force himself to speak, and his voice was barely audible. "...alright."

Jim sighed like he'd been holding his breath. His smile spread wide and he lowered his head, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's navel first. Like a little thank you. He glanced back up to Sherlock before moving lower, kiss by kiss until he reached the hem of Sherlock's trousers. He didn't look up that time, but Sherlock could see the delight spread across Jim's face when he popped the button, hooked his fingers in them and his underwear, and began to pull them down. Sherlock's hips were so small and narrow that it took very little effort. The moment his flesh was exposed, it was touched by Jim's hot breath. 

Sherlock didn't know how to feel. There was an anticipation of pleasure, along with a lingering sense of shame - not quite prudish, but that carnality was meant for normal people, not him. He also feared Jim suddenly changing his mind, as the man had a tendency to do. But all of that changed the moment hot breath turned into a hot mouth and slid around him. Sherlock's thoughts derailed and a small moan escaped him.

Jim's eyes fluttered shut. Strong hands gripped Sherlock's hips, preventing him from bucking up and jerking too much. And then Jim _sucked_. Sherlock could feel Jim's tongue slide over him, teasing all around. He fit all the way in Jim's mouth with no trouble at all. Encapsulating him wholly while Jim's tongue slid up and then slowly, painfully slowly, back down, was a sensation he hadn't experienced the last time. Jim moaned from the back of his throat. Fingertips squeezed Sherlock's hips and Jim seemed to have to force himself to stop. 

Sherlock's toes curled and, after a vain scramble to try to anchor himself using the sheets or the mattress, his fingers tangled in Jim's hair. He felt better with something to hold onto, but it made everything more intense, more real; he could feel Jim's head move, and the warmth of his scalp. Sherlock whimpered and writhed and tried to find a way to cope with the onslaught of sensations. Cool air hit damp skin and he felt Jim's head tilt up. Turning to look at him. Sherlock licked his lips and risked a glance down, certain that he must look desperate.

Jim's lips parted. One of his hands left Sherlock's hip to reach down his own body, drawing Sherlock's eyes. Jim was straining against his trousers. His palm hit the obvious bulge and a gasp escaped his mouth. His eyes fluttered shut. He canted his hips up into his palm and the motion pulled another moan from his throat before he squeezed his fingers around the bulge and held tight, like he was trying to rein himself in and only barely succeeding. When dark eyes snapped open and fixed back to Sherlock, Jim looked like he wanted to devour him whole, body and mind. Instead, he descended back down, one hand parting his own belt and wriggling inside his trousers while his mouth closed back around Sherlock's erection. 

Sherlock couldn't tear his eyes away, but stray thoughts surfaced through the debilitating haze of pleasure. He hadn't missed the way Jim had looked at him and what the man obviously wanted to do. Jim might not demand such this time, or the next, or even several times thereafter, but eventually he'd want more. Sherlock's mind supplied the imagery and the boy bit at his lower lip. 

He didn't know if he could do that. Sherlock hadn't thought he could even permit _this_ , that was true, but even this was throwing him into mental disarray and giving lie to his constant assertion that his body was merely transport.

Jim's one remaining hand at Sherlock's hips splayed wide, grabbing and kneading the flesh of Sherlock's backside as he thrust a little more forcefully into his own palm. 

In spite of the obvious connotations, Sherlock was still hard in his mouth, hands still gripped fiercely at his hair, small hips still strained against his jaw. And Jim could feel with every little shudder the way Sherlock's desires were betraying him. He reveled in it. He took the time to slow all the way down to a standstill, just to tease the boy beneath him. Just to make Sherlock ask for it. 

Sherlock didn't realize at first what Jim was doing. Teasing sucks and swipes from the man's tongue grew languid and finally ceased entirely, and Jim's mouth released him to a shock of cool air. Sherlock held onto Jim's head and tried to catch his breath, and everything clicked when Jim looked back at him with a slow, knowing smirk playing at his lips.

Jim was going to leave him like this. He had enough control that he'd do it, regardless of his own desires, just to make Sherlock face himself and force him to voice what he wanted. The boy's eyes widened and he felt his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth. He didn't know if he could say it.

Jim took a measure of pity on him. But only a small one. "Do you really hate this so much?" he asked softly, tongue darting out to swirl around the little head of Sherlock's cock. The heat was a focused pinpoint of sensation whereas Sherlock had been engulfed in it before. He even stopped his own strokes, holding himself tightly at the base. Sherlock could tell by the way the fabric strained even if he couldn't _see_ Jim. 

Hate wasn't really the right word and Jim knew it. Sherlock didn't find the idea distasteful or repulsive as an abstract. He understood that sex of all kinds was a major part of life for a lot of people, and that it fulfilled different needs depending on the person. Sherlock just had a difficult time relating himself to it. He'd deliberately put himself out of reach, perhaps out of self-defense, even though Mycroft had made his own exceptions about sex regarding cold detachment. However he managed it, Sherlock didn't think he'd be able to stay detached and unemotional around someone touching him so intimately, or even going so far to invade his body. He'd already failed at avoiding emotional bonds even without such things.

Part of Sherlock's mind pointed out that, for all intents and purposes, he was already invaded. Jim was attached to him and in him, somehow, rummaging through his head. There was no privacy to be had.

"...no, not really," Sherlock finally admitted quietly. His hangups weren't with what they were doing, or even who he was doing this with.

"But Sherlock Holmes doesn't do this. Isn't that right?" Jim whispered. Then his smile quirked. "If I'd come out of hiding back then, you might have changed your mind." His tongue licked the tip again before his fingers took over, gripping lightly around Sherlock and stroking up and down so that Jim could speak. "Isn't _that_ a thought? Can you imagine now what trouble we'd have gotten up to together?" Jim's light laugh was genuine as he lost himself in the daydream of himself and Sherlock growing up together, probably doing a lot more together, of Sherlock imprinting on him rather than the people he so desperately and yet tenuously clung to now. 

Sherlock could imagine. He'd drifted without purpose for much of his life, endlessly frustrated and bored and hurt by rejection. Even university hadn't given him more hope, and it was only after falling into a life of drugs out of despair that he'd encountered law enforcement again and remembered just how fond he'd been of solving real puzzles instead of contrived ones. If Jim had gotten to him before all of that, Sherlock knew he would have clung to him, both as a kindred spirit and as a source of purpose, something to drive the ennui away. 

"I... yes," he murmured. Jim was still stroking and watching for Sherlock's reaction, and the boy's blush deepened. His hips tilted up against Jim's hand of their own accord.

That yes lit up Jim's whole face. The very room around them warmed with light falling through the windows. Everything sharpened, and it wasn't just Sherlock's imagination. The solidity of his bedroom, the salty tang of the sea air, the gulls calling outside and the gentle waves rolling in, the softness of the bed underneath them, it all intensified. Jim had to be doing it unconsciously. His focus was still on Sherlock, but it was as though he were pinpointing this one moment in his memory, saving it to be recalled later, whenever he wished. His intent was evidenced in their surroundings. 

With a toothy smile, Jim dipped back down, engulfing Sherlock with renewed enthusiasm. 

Sherlock tried to stay quiet and still, but that proved an impossibility. His body did as it wanted, shivering and arching into Jim's touches, and Sherlock's self-control began to fray. "... _fuck_ ," he whispered, then promptly let go of Jim's head so he could bite down on his own hand. Anything to stop his mouth from running. He bit too hard and tasted blood, and that only made things worse. Sherlock gave a muffled groan.

He felt Jim's head tilt. Still sucking in ever quickening strokes, Jim was now staring up at him with undisguised lust. Their eyes locked like that. Sherlock could see himself, so small he was barely able to, disappearing into Jim's mouth just as much as he could feel it. Jim broke that connection only when his eyes drifted on a particularly sweet stroke of his own hand. From the way his arms was moving, he was matching the pace of his mouth. 

It was too much. The same throes that Sherlock remembered wracked him and he climaxed with a muffled shout, half-lidded eyes still watching Jim devour him. 

To Sherlock's surprise, something about this time felt different, and it took a few moments for him to realize what it was: he was still hard in Jim's mouth. Sherlock grappled with confusion before an idea stuck him - he was a different age in this memory, one before puberty had truly struck. He might not be subject to the limitations of his body as it currently was, but the ones relevant to whatever form he was in.

Jim's eyes closed. His hand tightened around himself and his hips gave a particularly violent buck against the mattress below them. He'd felt it. The way his attention narrowed to the point of contact between them was obvious. Jim was enthralled by it, so much so that he began to stroke himself more and more quickly, and he was crying out in a muffled gasp not moments later. 

But he didn't let go of Sherlock. Not until he pulled his hand free of his trousers, slippery with his own come. He crawled up Sherlock's body, not having far to go, until he could lift Sherlock into his arms. His still wet fingers wrapped around Sherlock’s small length and Jim’s nose nuzzled against his neck.

Sherlock could have stopped him, in theory. He could have objected to being touched with cum-slick fingers, or Jim's obvious intent to torment him by taking advantage of this form's stamina and almost nonexistent refraction period. He could have, and was right on the edge of telling Jim no, but something stopped him. Perhaps he was more of a hedonist, or a masochist, than he'd realized. Perhaps it had something to do with element of danger. Or perhaps it had to do with the way Jim was looking at him, a far cry from how anyone else had looked at him before.

Jim rearranged them until Sherlock was straddling his lap, one arm curled around him to keep him in place while his other hand stroked. Sherlock was short enough in this form that he still had to look up ever so slightly to meet Jim's gaze. He could feel a hot dampness underneath him that made him squirm when he realized what it was.

He felt Jim's breathy laugh against his cheek when he noticed Sherlock's reaction, but Jim didn't otherwise draw attention to it. He seemed to desire wringing every pleasure he could out of Sherlock, even in spite of his own recovery time being much slower. He drew Sherlock as close as he could while his fingers worked, ramping up the pace now that Sherlock had come once already. Jim bent his head and captured his mouth, the position forcing his head back but Jim caught him with his one free hand in case he lost his balance. Jim was the only thing keeping him upright. 

Sherlock's hands touched the man’s chest. He might have been intending to push him away, but they simply rested there and gradually curled into fists, clutching at his shirt. Jim's mouth still tasted of musk, like last time, but without the bitterness that Sherlock had found so repulsive. The situation wasn't entirely without disgust; Sherlock felt... not humiliated, exactly, but uncomfortable with the knowledge that Jim's hand was coated with his own semen and using it to ease the friction.

Jim by contrast did not seem to notice. Or care. He had no hesitance at all about touching Sherlock's body, or encountering its fluids, something that seemed not to have happened this time, but he had reveled in it the last. If he'd had his way, he'd probably crawl into Sherlock's very insides, wear him like a coat, make a home inside his core. And in a way that was exactly what he had already done. 

Kissing like this was different, too. Jim was bigger now, but he at least was aware of the difference and able to compensate for it. 

Sherlock eventually did push Jim away, just enough to break their kiss so he could breathe. Jolts of pleasure were running through him from Jim's hand and the lingering afterglow. He was growing close to another climax but Jim seemed to have no intention of stopping. Part of Sherlock felt oddly... relieved. As if decisions were past his control. He could just give in to the hands keeping him suspended and wringing pleasure out of him, and it wouldn't be his fault. Nobody else would know, and he wouldn't have to accept blame.

"That's it..." Jim whispered into his ear. It was still questionable whether he could read Sherlock's mind while they were inside it. Though he was clearly able to when Sherlock was in the waking world, that didn’t seem like the case here. Jim was, however, very good at reading his expressions. His fingers squeezed with just the slightest more force. His pace never faltered, moving in quicker, shorter motions, bringing the sensation down to focus in a single point. 

Sherlock felt something soft brush his arms and realized that he'd wound them around Jim's neck. He was panting, and everything was narrowing down to this moment. Jim was everywhere, wound through his mind, a voice in his ear, warmth and pressure, holding him in place and touching him until his body short circuited into helpless delight and his thoughts stopped. Sherlock gasped and his spine arched as he climaxed a second time, just as dry as the first.

Jim's mouth parted against his neck, more of a shocked gasp than a kiss, but just as soft and warm all the same. He worked Sherlock through every wave of electric pleasure that coursed through him, and finally slowed when it became too much. Sherlock was pressed up to his front, sweaty, trembling, strung out with the aftershocks of sensation, and Jim finally pulled his hand away. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock instead. Unlike their previous time together, Jim showed no signs of letting go. He tipped backward, laying Sherlock down atop him to rest in his embrace. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and his body slowly loosened up. He felt lethargic, but in a way reminiscent of an indulgent bath or an opium high. He was relaxed and warm, if a little sticky, and it didn't seem to matter that it was Jim who'd done this to him, or who was holding him, or how they looked at the moment. Sherlock noted with vague curiosity that, even though Jim was dead, he could still hear a heartbeat beneath his ear and see the pulse line in Jim's neck.

Jim's cheek rested against the top of Sherlock's head, and, by further contrast to their time before, fingers trailed softly down his back. When Sherlock's own breathing had calmed enough, he could feel Jim's chest rise and fall slowly beneath him. Jim was tired, too. But the environment around them was just as real. He wasn't expending any energy keeping it up. Though Jim may be as physically tired as he possibly could be in this dream state, he had not expended any energy in their exertions. If anything, by the pulse of his heart and the slightest electric crackle in the air, he had gained some. 

Sherlock’s curiosity was enough to rouse him out of languor. Small fingertips reached up to touch the man's jugular and feel his pulse. It could have just been an illusion, but something about it felt... stronger. More solid. 

Sherlock recalled something similar in the time before, when he'd been cornered without nearly as much consent. Jim had been tired afterwards, too, draped across the bed before pushing Sherlock out of it, but something had changed then, too. "...do you feel... different?"

Jim made a soft noise and turned his head, languidly dislodging Sherlock's fingers. "I feel wonderful," he said instead, a little smile gracing his features. That wasn't what Sherlock asked though, and Jim was avoiding the question. He was perhaps even more unused to sharing details like that than Sherlock was, even when there was no denying it. He couldn't hide the strength of his heart, nor the way the very air all but crackled around them. 

Their connection was symbiotic in some way. It had to be; Jim had drawn energy from him before to sustain himself or perform an action, and it had left Sherlock fatigued or chilled. Now they'd engaged in a different sort of energy exchange, more or less, and Jim had gained strength from it. This exchange hadn't left Sherlock bone tired and cold down to his core, however. Sherlock opened his mouth to clarify and his voice died once he got a good look at Jim. The criminal's skin nearly glowed, and his smile wasn't completely a mask.

It was very unlikely Jim had discovered this sort of exchange with anyone prior to Sherlock. It was, however, very likely that he might be wary of Sherlock's attention to it. 

But it seemed Jim was in too good a mood to spoil the moment, and kept Sherlock wrapped up in his arms, even pulling the plump blankets up around them. 

Sherlock let the matter rest for now. There were topics of his own that he didn't want to discuss, and Jim wasn't dragging them to the surface. 

Wrapped together like this, Sherlock was surprisingly content. More than. He’d had been half-bracing for another instance of bodily rejection, only for Jim to stay curled around him. The warmth was pleasant, but just having the presence of another person beside him was remarkably so. Strange, as well, as it was something he wasn't used to anymore, and certainly not like this... but soothing.

He noticed Jim's eyes began to droop. The slow stroking of his back stopped. Jim seemed content to go boneless, lying beneath Sherlock, nose pressed to his hair. 

Gradually, the little room of the beach house began to break down. It fell away in pieces. First the walls, then the furniture, the decorations, then the windows, until they were on a bed on the sandy shore, and then even that fell away. Like they were leaving earth. The bed remained, but the familiar star clusters of Jim's mindscape slid back into place around them. They didn't tip, or rock, or seem unstable in any way, but there was no gravity here. No up nor down, nor left nor right. 

Jim had fallen asleep. 

Sherlock took advantage of the moment, quietly examining the man draped around him and their surroundings. This void had appeared several times before, and Sherlock was beginning to suspect that Jim's mind, rather than being a maze of rooms, was _this_ : endless stars, encapsulated information suspended in darkness.

Sherlock was left with a choice. He could stay here, to try to leave and find a sheltered place to sleep elsewhere... or try to wake up and make the most of Jim's unconscious state by researching how to get rid of him. The last no longer seemed very likely, with an added element of futility that whatever Sherlock found, Jim would know about it. The spirit could poke through his recent memories and find whatever he had discovered. Even if Sherlock devised some sort of method to encrypt the information, there had to be a key, and he had to know where the key was. Jim could easily follow that trail and crack the code without effort.

What remained boiled down to trust. Sherlock didn't trust Jim on the whole, but the other man now seemed more inclined to try to work things out between them. 

With some reservations, Sherlock closed his eyes and concentrated on physical sensations of security. It took more than a few minutes, but eventually he drifted off with the sound of Jim's quiet breathing in his ears.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your comments! And for those wondering about updates to the Fear series, I'll see to posting the rest of what we've written as soon as this story is all up online. We're around the halfway mark, just to give you an idea.
> 
> Warning in this chapter for the vague mention of pedophilia.

When Sherlock opened his eyes again, the flat was empty. Empty, cold, and dark. The alarm at his night stand read 9:34 and it took a moment of calculating to realize that it was in fact 9:34 pm. Probably the very same day. Unless he'd slept through the day and the night after. The shades were always closed, but after a moment of inspection, it was in fact night outside. 

There were three messages on his phone, one from John, two from Lestrade. Both told him to stay in, take it easy, get some rest, call if he needed anything. Lestrade went on later that they'd had no luck finding their suspect. They Met had, however, managed to contain the Bas Congo virus and “calm” the public. 

Sherlock sighed and passed a hand over his face. He turned only to find the sheets in an even worse state than they'd been in the night before - and his pants as well. Sherlock grimaced and stripped out of the soiled undergarments, then took the sheets off the bed, too. He left them in the hamper and made a note that he needed to do the washing. He had a tendency to forget, these days.

The detective made a quick inspection of the kitchen cupboards before turning back to the loo. Few edible things remained in the flat, and none of them were appetizing. He'd have to leave for supplies regardless of what Lestrade and his posted Met babysitters would prefer.

Jim had been silent for the long minutes it took for Sherlock to get himself back in order. Mostly in order, at least. By the time he had showered and had a pot of coffee brewing, Jim made his presence known by feel more than words. Sherlock was reaching for a mug, bent against the counter top, when a light tingle run down his spine. It wasn't unpleasant, not like the chill from earlier, but it was a bit startling. 

" _Good morning,_ " Jim whispered in his ear. 

"You're lucky I wasn't holding the coffee pot when you did that," Sherlock muttered, but he counted this as an improvement. Anything was an improvement compared to heart attacks, chills, and having objects thrown at his head. "And it's evening, actually. Not that it really matters." 

Sherlock finished pouring himself a mug and sat down next to his laptop in the den. A glance told him that nothing interesting had landed in his inbox. From what he could hear, the rain had cleared up while he'd been asleep. He leaned over and peered around the window shades and saw that yes, indeed, the nanny squad was still outside.

Jim tsked, perhaps in mirror of Sherlock's unspoken sentiments. _"That detective really has a soft spot for you, doesn't he?"_ A note of amusement made Jim's voice lilt. He knew very well who Lestrade was and how much he went out of his way for Sherlock. _"Too bad we can't simply...I don't know, go out and call off that little vendetta against you."_

"Yes, trying to deal with your pet murderer and explain myself worked so well last time, what with you taking over my voice and giving him further motivation to shoot me in the head." Sherlock sipped at his coffee and scrolled through the latest news posts. Lestrade did seem to have been telling the truth about having the virus situation contained. "Even if you do that again, I doubt he's going to stop and just believe whatever comes out of my mouth."

_"Well obviously I wouldn't tell him to shoot you in the head."_ Sherlock could _feel_ Jim smiling as surely as if Jim's lips were pressed to the back of his neck. _"But if you're willing, I could make him believe it's me. You know how persuasive I can be."_ Impressions of warm fingertips walked across Sherlock's shoulder. Jim seemed to have figured out how unsettling the cold was, assuming that was his natural state. 

Sherlock stiffened. "...no, you're _not_ going to use my body to persuade him past my comfort levels." Sherlock more than suspected that Sebastian had been involved with Jim, and he wasn't going to abide Jim taking him over just to persuade Sebastian with particularly intimate things that only they would have known about. Not even after this last sleep cycle.

Sherlock flushed and tried to derail the thoughts that summoned by filling his head with white noise.

It was too late. 

Jim's dark laughter echoed through his head. _"For someone who's never shown an interest in sex before, you have a filthy mind. And you've also managed to capture Seb's likeness quite nicely."_ Jim didn't seem at all phased. Sherlock could feel him settling down in his head, like Jim were folding himself into an armchair for a little chat. _"If you want him out of your hair, you're going to have to give me a little leeway."_

Sherlock wasn't going to respond to that accusation. He wasn't. His flush deepened as he tried to push aside his own confusion about himself and whatever his tangle of an orientation was turning out to be. "... _leeway_. And what exactly is it that you want to try? Seeing if you can make me move if I give you permission?"

If Sherlock concentrated enough, he could almost feel Jim's expressions. And right now, he was raising his brows. _"Yes, in fact. I would need to have complete motor control as well as vocal. You'll forgive me if I mention I've never witnessed you pull off a disguise convincingly before. If you can copy my mannerisms, well...that might be a different story."_

A frown creased Sherlock's brow from the insult. "That can't be right. _Never_?" Surely Jim hadn't seen the majority of his work. Tricking people had never been an issue before. Even when the physical components of a disguise weren't perfect, other things could cover for it. Body language and posture, mannerisms, tone and accent - appearance was only one of several parts of a disguise.

_"There there. Don't take it to heart. You do better when it's not in person."_ Jim feigned embarrassment and Sherlock almost felt a pat on his arm. _"Moving along... you'd still need quite a show to convince dear ol' Seb. No one has had more time to observe my person than he has, as much as your powers of observation have made up for a considerable amount of familiarity."_

"So I don't have time to make a study of all the specifics." Or to listen to Jim's answers and repeat them. Sherlock knew this made a certain amount of sense, as Sebastian was going to be on even more of a hair-trigger than he'd been previously, but he still didn't like it. "...if we're going to try this, we need some ground rules. I'm not having you ruin my life and reputation."

He got the distinct impression Jim was rolling his eyes. _"Been there, done that. Besides, the only one who needs to see you is Seb. And we'd do best if he's taken off guard. Fortunately, I'm confident I can find him for you."_ Jim stretched out in Sherlock's mind, expanding himself and filling the little spaces until he seemed to engulf every sense and every thought. _"I may not have access to a network anymore, but I do have certain advantages in this form."_

Sherlock paused to adjust to the sensation. It wasn't uncomfortable, and it didn't hinder his thought processes, but it felt truly bizarre. Sherlock wondered if it would feel similar if he permitted Jim a measure of control, like someone else was with him, occupying the space just underneath his skin. "Just walk through every wall in London until you find him?" Sherlock attempted to joke. " _Can_ you actually get very far? I've never been certain whether your leaving has been you wandering off or simply falling asleep, wherever it is you're residing."

Jim's laugh echoed in his head. _"You don't think I'm going to give up **all** my secrets now, do you? You'll just have to trust me on this one."_ Jim winked from behind Sherlock's eyelids. _"And that's really all I'm asking for. Just a little trust. Enough to ride around in that skin of yours for a while."_

"Just a little trust, entreats the man who tried to make me jump off a building and who nearly stopped my heart," Sherlock muttered around his coffee mug. Jim had already shown that he was able to take control of small things without Sherlock's permission, with a related cost. If he retracted his permission and began fighting, it should render control equally difficult. "I want to know what you intend to try. I'm not going into this blind."

He felt Jim's nonchalant shrug. _"I'll simply remind him of all the quality times we shared together. Running around the globe, hiding out, the extra special jobs I orchestrated, a list of every nasty little thing I’ve ever done to him…"_ Sherlock felt the swish of Jim's waving hand. _"Unfortunately yes, there may be some 'touching' involved. But nothing too hard on your body, cross my little black heart."_

Sherlock felt his body tense at the thought. "You are not letting him do anything to me. I'll retract permission if you try." Jim might be tethered to him, but his body was still his own. He didn't want to worry about abuse from two parties at once, much less both of them working together.

"I have to go out for supplies. We'll try something _simple_. Don't try anything that draws too much attention. I don't want Lestrade to find out I've got other ways of leaving the flat and that I'm avoiding his security detail."

_"Supplies?"_ Jim asked as Sherlock rose. He didn't get very far before he felt the tingle of Jim settling back inside him, expanding like he'd done before, but this time with intent. Jim was studying his movements, feeling Sherlock's weight stride from one foot to the other, feeling the catch and lift, feeling his arms swing. And Sherlock could feel what Jim was perceiving like an echo, like Jim was concentrating without his guards up and it turned into a broadcast. 

"Nothing extravagant. There's nothing edible in the apartment and I no longer have an assistant to do the shopping, which means I have to go myself." Sherlock shrugged into his coat and pocketed his phone and wallet, then headed up the stairs. The rooftop exit was the least troublesome, and so far Lestrade hadn't noticed Sherlock leaving that way, although Mycroft most certainly had. "Wait until I get back at ground level, and then we'll try walking."

_"Ooh, exciting,"_ Jim drawled, but Sherlock could feel a distinct tingle run up his spine that said Jim wasn't being entirely sarcastic. He _was_ excited. It made Sherlock prickle all over with something that felt a lot like static electricity. At least Jim had some to burn after their little…encounter earlier. He went quiet when Sherlock stepped through John's old room. John’s things were long gone by now, but people like them saw the signs left behind. 

Sherlock was glad for the silence. He didn't want to talk about it, and if Jim could pick the thoughts out of his head, he probably could feel the emotional reverberations that passed through Sherlock as he crossed the room.

Minutes later, Sherlock descended a fire escape a few buildings over. There was a Tesco Express the next block over, but Sherlock needed more than a carton of milk and a packet or two of crisps. A larger Tesco was a fair walk to the west, but it gave them time to run their experiment. _"...alright, we'll try this. Head towards Church Street."_

Jim didn't need any further invitation. He began to expand again, filling not only Sherlock's head, but extending out from there. Down Sherlock's neck… He could almost feel Jim in his throat. His eyes shifted without his own accord. And still he could feel Jim spreading, into his hands, his fingertips, down his legs, and into the tips of his toes. It hadn't been like that the first time Jim had taken his voice, but Jim was driven to explore this time. 

Hesitantly, Sherlock, or Jim, took a step forward. 

Even though he'd expected strange sensations, the feeling of something else spreading through his body and taking control was alien and somewhat frightening. Sherlock mused that it wasn't entirely dissimilar to the moment when he'd stepped off the roof of St. Bart's. The tingling was the same, as was the sensation of weightlessness and an instinctual panic over the loss of control. Sherlock tried to throw out his arms to catch his balance, only to have his body's arms jerk awkwardly while it processed two conflicting signals. _"Shit."_

_"Stop that."_ Jim's voice rang out in his head, somehow louder and closer like this. The muscles in Sherlock's back tensed as Jim tried to compensate. Somehow, Sherlock's leg planted on the ground, what must have been an unconscious action by one of them, but his balance was thrown. Too far to the left side. His center of gravity was off. Jim tried to catch himself the other way. 

One of them panicked. Both of them panicked. And Sherlock went down. 

Passersby gave him strange looks before quickly averting their eyes. They assumed he was a drunk, or possibly something more unsavory, and none of them wanted to acknowledge his existence. Doing so might mean an obligation to stop and help, or call the police, and no one wanted the embarrassment and hassle.

_"I wasn't expecting it to feel like that,"_ Sherlock grumbled in his mind. Getting up was equally a chore; neither of them had decided who was in control, but eventually he rose ungracefully back to his feet. _"Try moving a little slower next time. That felt like being jerked into a free-fall."_

He could almost feel Jim rolling his eyes. But slowly, once he was reasonably sturdy again, Sherlock's shoulders rolled before he'd thought about it. A light pain lanced across one, where he'd fallen, but Jim didn't take any notice of it. Sherlock’s fingers twitched and that was the only warning he got before his hands rose in front of him. They stretched and closed into fists as Jim tested each finger. The feel of it seemed to be coming back to him more naturally now. Sherlock felt his head tilting to follow the movement of his left palm as it rose higher. If people weren't watching before, they were now.

_"...Jim, not in public like this. I don't want attention. Nobody is supposed to know I've left the flat."_ People stared and scuttled faster. Nobody wanted to wait and see if he was a junkie that was about to tweak out on someone. Sherlock tried to put his feet into motion again to get them moving towards the destination he'd set.

Only to be met with instant resistance. 

Muscles in Sherlock's legs tightened and turned the motion into a jerky stagger. Fortunately, this time Jim, having seen it coming, was able to balance with outstretched arms. _"If you're going to let me drive, then let me drive."_ And Sherlock's feet were moving again, this time with Jim's will behind them. 

Sherlock was left with a dizzy, disorienting feeling not entirely dissimilar to the sensory distortions of intoxication. He could still see, but it was strange somehow, like there was a split-second time delay or coming to him through a filter. _"...like the back seat of a car,"_ he realized. Touch seemed slightly numb and distant as well. Jim had moved in front of him, if there was such a thing, and he was receiving all of his sensory data after Jim was. _"Is that what it's like for you?"_

_"Yes, a bit."_

Once Sherlock was out of the way, Jim seemed to have picked up on making his body move quite well. He tripped a little at first, not quite used to Sherlock's long gait. Or walking at all for that matter. But 'Sherlock' was soon striding down the sidewalk at a fairly regular pace, arms swinging beside him as he went. 

The muscles of his face pulled. Sherlock's lips parted. He was smiling. Grinning, even, as he strolled down the street. A laugh bubbled up out of Sherlock's throat. Jim was _happy_. Jim was _elated_. Just to be walking again. 

Sherlock could feel it. With Jim at the forefront, his body was responding as if he were its usual owner. Endorphins flooded his system and Sherlock felt the warmth of it radiating towards him as well, suspended in the back of his own head. He couldn't imagine what Jim must have been thinking. After being dead for so long, normal actions must have seemed luxurious and thrilling.

Which was another worry. What if Jim decided he wanted to just permanently take over? _"...you seem to be learning quickly."_

_"Like riding a bike. The less I think about it, the more easily it comes back,"_ Jim laughed back, taking them on a little jump off the kerb. He caught himself with only minimal confusion about what foot went where. 

"And yes," Jim laughed again, this time speaking aloud. "Seems I'm a natural in your body." He opened Sherlock's mouth, like he was about to yawn, feeling the way his throat moved as he spoke. "I always loved your voice. That sultry timbre, octaves no obstacle. This is a golden opportunity don't you think? What could I make Sherlock say…?" He stopped, halted in the middle of a side street in fact, as he took a moment to lower his head and growl, "Jim Moriarty is the most brilliant criminal the world has ever known."

Sherlock had rolled his eyes at Jim's unsubtle innuendo, trying to cover his unease at the reference and the man's description of his voice. When Jim decided to take advantage of the situation in order to praise himself, however, Sherlock couldn't help but laugh. _"Really, you wait for years to get me to speak whatever you want, and the best thing you think of is to force me to compliment you? It doesn't mean much unless I do it of my own will."_

The funny thing was, Jim was laughing too. Sherlock's head fell back and he laughed up to the night sky, dull and clouded over with light pollution and wholly unremarkable…and yet. 

_"Doesn't matter,"_ Jim shot back. "I'll take what I can get, and your voice is a fine prize." With that, they were off again, continuing their path along the sidewalk. Jim finally had the sense to stow Sherlock's hands away in his coat pockets, but as soon as he did, he encountered Sherlock's personal effects, which brought them to a halt again. Jim plucked Sherlock's phone from his pocket. 

Sherlock's arms immediately began to lock up as he struggled to force Jim to return the phone to his pocket. _"Don't you dare,"_ he growled. His smartphone was a weakness, like with so many other users - personal data was stored on it, but also important phone numbers. Mycroft's. John's. _"I agreed to let you try walking to the store and back, not for you to use my voice to manipulate people I know over the phone."_

"I'm _hurt_ ," Jim laughed. And strangely Sherlock did feel some emotion from the other occupant of his mind, but it was difficult to tell what it was. Still, Sherlock's thumb swiped across the slider, then up and down the smooth screen, carelessly hitting buttons along the way. Jim was enamored by the feel of it. Sherlock could feel _that_ as the emotion welled within him. Finally he cleared the screen and punched in the keys he'd spied Sherlock doing a hundred times over. Jim looked at the screen, contact, music, browser, file storage icons all waiting for him, but left it at that. 

He brought out Sherlock's magnifying glass next. 

Sherlock quieted once the phone was put away. He didn't mind if Jim enjoyed himself, within reason. He watched his body's fingers turn the magnifying glass over and finally click it open, holding it up to catch the light. Something about the motions touched him; Jim seemed to have that mix of melancholic and pleasurable focus that came with indulging an old nostalgia that had almost been forgotten, or a dream that had been thought impossible. _"...do you miss it?"_

Jim snorted. But he waited a beat to put the magnifying glass away. Once it was safely tucked back into Sherlock's coat, they began meandering down the sidewalk again. Jim seemed to have perfected a leisurely stroll. He alternated between that and a brisk walk, then a bit of a skip. His fingers curled in the wool of Sherlock's inner pockets to keep them warm, and he blew his breath into the air to see and feel it turn to fog in front of his face. One thing Jim didn't seem to be interested in were the people that occasionally passed on the street. He ignored them completely, so much so that he might have been unaware of them altogether. 

Sherlock decided to make the most of the experience. He observed Jim's movements, not just as they translated through to his own body, but how they felt internally. It was almost like having someone settled right atop his skin. He'd seen a teacher do that once, long ago - tutoring Mycroft at piano by leaning over his brother and having his hands tucked under Mycroft's, or over, running him through new techniques. It wasn't sexual, but in a way it was almost more intimate than what he and Jim had done hours ago.

If Jim could feel Sherlock's considering focus, he didn't indicate so. Probably, he was too caught up in the sensory input of the world around him to pay it much mind. 

They could see the store coming up, just across the next street, and Jim had no reluctance about taking Sherlock out of the night and into the world of light and people. His eyes caught on everything as he went, the slide of the glass door, the scrape of the plastic as he picked up a basket, the squeak of his shoe as he turned on the floor. 

Sherlock wondered if Jim had always been like this, or if this was the result of floating in a void for a few years. Here, too, Jim didn't seem to care about the people scattered throughout this space of commercialism and industrial lighting. _" We need to get at least some basics. I hate shopping, and I'd prefer things that keep for a while so I don't have to make another trip in a few days."_

With that said, Jim directed Sherlock's gaze to the frozen food area. His head cocked, first one way, and then the other. It would have seemed he were simply getting used to the physicality again if the motion hadn't been suddenly very familiar - Jim standing before Sherlock at the pool, his head oscillating like a lizard's. The motion was entirely his own, translated through Sherlock's body. And then they were off, striding this way and that around a few scattered shoppers. Sherlock's hand reached out and slid along the glass freezer doors as they went. It sent a tiny little shiver up his spine. 

The smooth coolness wasn't extraordinary to Sherlock's senses - just a perfectly normal texture with an expected difference in temperature. The scents coming from the produce section were ordinary as well, earthy vegetation and faint, sweet tanginess of fruit juxtaposed against the slightly metallic smell of the streets outside. 

Sherlock had an idea. He wasn't the best at understanding and predicting normal people, but Jim was anything but normal, and he could feel the other man's emotions in brief flickers. _"Get something for yourself, as well."_

Jim snorted aloud, again. It seemed he was about to turn Sherlock down, but then something caught his attention. Sherlock's feet stopped. His head turned, fixating on the isle across from them where a family was leisurely making their way along, two young boys trailing behind and laughing. 

Sweets. 

Sherlock turned on his heel, a motion that nearly sent them tipping again, but swept across the isle on long strides. His gaze danced along the shelves, fingers following his eyes, moving between the chocolates and hard candies. He kept his back turned, but this time Jim no longer ignored the other shoppers. His eyes darted to the two boys, kicking at one another in play that would soon turn into an argument.

Sherlock watched Jim's behavior with more than a bit of curiosity. It didn't take long for a theory to surface. The boys were, after all, around the same age marker he'd been during that encounter in his mind palace, when Jim's anger had abruptly melted away for little discernable reason. The man was being discreet, enough that the shoppers around him wouldn't notice, but Sherlock could see everything Jim was seeing. 

_"...now that's interesting. A fan of Strato, are you?"_

Jim pulled Sherlock's lips into a smile, deciding between a pack of Twix or a Snickers bar. His eyes danced between the Snickers and the two figures meandering behind him. Sherlock could feel his amusement, still tinged with no small amount of elation from before, but it was heightened now. _"Poetry, Sherlock? The first thing you think of is poetry?"_ Jim's tease wasn't a tease at all. It felt more like their handshake on the roof. Jim took the Snickers. 

_"I'm sure you know what I meant."_ Although it couldn't have been an entirely exclusive attraction, if Jim had dallied with his gunman as well as pursuing him years after their near-miss at the pool. While it was insight, it added far more questions than it answered. _"I think I understand now why you're so fond of that particular memory of mine."_

Jim spread Sherlock’s smile wide as he finally made his way from the candy isle. The family disappeared around the corner opposite. 

_"So you've reached enlightenment,"_ Jim chided as he picked up the milk, stopping to run his finger down the condensation on the inside of the glass freezer. _"I've found a few more memories of yours I enjoy rather a lot. You didn't think I was going through your head just to dig up dirt, did you?"_ Sherlock's eyebrow arched. Jim was unconsciously making expressions that coincided with their internal conversation.

Sherlock went quiet and still. He _had_ been assuming Jim had been rummaging for more information, either from the distant past or from recent events, trying to keep an eye on him after his failed attempt to research exorcism. _"...what exactly have you been looking at?"_ Sherlock wasn't merely keeping his own secrets, after all.

_"Well, a lot of you."_ Jim's smug satisfaction shot up another notch as they moved down another isle, taking items at random off the shelves. _"And I did notice several peculiarities concerning your brother…. Ones that would lead me to believe he might not truly be as dull as he would have the world believe. One in particular…involving a knife and a trap set in the woods of your family estate. Those poor rabbits."_ Sherlock's hand lingered in the air. _"Toothpaste?"_

Sherlock felt a spike of anger rush through him. He'd resigned himself to the fact that his own recent memories were going to be violated, but he and his brother were closer than appearances would imply. Or they were, off and on again, when Mycroft hadn't done something to irritate him. _"You had no right to any of that."_

_"And yet, here we are."_ Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up as Jim turned his body. _"You should know by now existence as we know it doesn't care 'who has the right' to anything. You thought the world was **fair**?"_ Jim was scanning the store again, taking in sights and sounds, even the very smell and feel of the air, but his mood had calmed. _"If anyone had to find out, be grateful that it was me."_

_" **No one** was ever supposed to find out."_ Sherlock had known very well that there wasn't a sense of justice and fairness to the universe, or at least not from a human perspective of such things. Nature ripped through everything without mercy, probability played out as it would, and there was little rhyme or reason to who got lucky in life and who died in horrific accidents or at the other end of a murder weapon.

Sherlock wanted to punch something. His body reacted and his free hand clenched.

Jim stiffened Sherlock's back, not liking the unexpected loss of control. He stopped at the end of the next isle, turning his attention inward. _"Are you going to fight me on this? Because you must realize there's very little you can keep from me now. You're my only company, Sherlock, unfortunate soul you are."_

Apart from Sherlock, there was only one other man who might be persuaded to believe what had happened to Jim. 

_"There's little I can keep from you, yes. Not by force."_ For all Sherlock knew, Jim could pick through his mind and randomly destroy whatever he found on a whim, terrifying as the thought was. Sherlock wouldn't be able to stop him because Jim was beyond his reach at the moment, and perhaps permanently. _"But I am your only company, and I am asking you to leave me some privacy. You don't like it when I'm unwilling and not playing along, that much is obvious. If you’re that curious to get to know me, for God's sake, talk to me. Or we can visit memories together. Just don't go picking through my head when I'm not there."_

Sherlock's face pulled into a scowl. _"I'll make you no promises, but for the time being I have no objection to inviting you along."_ If Jim's prior attempts at pulling Sherlock into a memory were any indication, he might have ulterior motives for agreeing so readily to that part. And even if Sherlock was able to give him the director's cut version of a memory, the ones Jim wanted to visit weren't all going to be pleasant. Or if they were, Jim would likely do his best to make them unpleasant. Like the beach house.

Sherlock grew quiet. Jim's partial agreement was the best he could hope for. All of this was making the most out of the poor hand of cards he'd been dealt, really. When all was said and done, he was still alive and, aside from the rough start that had left him on edge, things weren't as bad as they could have been. Jim didn't have to compromise at all, but he was giving some concessions here and there, and he hadn't forced any of the things he obviously wanted. Not to the degree that he wanted.

_"Now then, shall we?"_ Jim asked as though Sherlock were a petulant child, straightening Sherlock's shoulders and tightening his grip on the basket. His fascination with Tesco had ended and it was plainly obvious he was ready to leave. He was also getting very comfortable in Sherlock's body. Enough that it rocked on its heels with Jim's eagerness to get out of the store. 

_"By all means. I don't want to dally here all night."_ Sherlock had no idea how long Jim planned on being in control, but he'd only promised a test run while they were running errands. Being disconnected and numb like this was disconcerting. Even more so because it was obvious that Jim was enjoying his body and making himself at home. _"Pay for this and let's get back to the flat. Chip and pin card is in my left pocket."_

Jim walked them up to the checkout machine, but that didn't stop him from swiping another bar of chocolate off the nearby shelf. He did it in such a fluid motion it was almost thoughtless. One hand swung down from his hip, moving with the flow of the coat, opposite the security camera, catching the corner of the wrapper and dipping it into his pocket along with his hand, resurfacing once more with only the pin card as he set his things on the loading tray. He swiped the items in a flurry. _"Pin?"_

_"8741. Have a care not to get caught doing that in my body. I don't need the awkward questions or for Lestrade to search my flat because he wonders why I'm shoplifting and suddenly short on cash."_ The DI was already suspicious, and sympathy wouldn't hold him off a second time if he decided there really was something to be concerned about. Sherlock's caches were well-hidden, but not entirely foolproof.

_"Like you don't pickpocket Lestrade."_ Jim smirked and took up his bags, leaving the store with a renewed bounce in his step. He unwrapped the candy bar, chocolate caramel something he'd barely taken a second glance at, and bit into the end. 

And abruptly stopped. 

Mid-chew, every bit of Jim's focus narrowed down to the sensation of taste. His tongue - Sherlock's tongue - ran under the edge of the melting sweetness in his mouth. He sucked and savored it before beginning to chew again, slowly. "Mm, now _that_ I remember." 

Sherlock couldn't see his own face, but he could feel Jim shift his features into an expression of pleasure. It felt voyeuristic, feeling someone else's pleasure so intensely and directly. Sherlock was disturbed to realize he was more than a little intrigued. He shouldn't have been surprised that Jim was highly sensual in many different areas, but he was. He wouldn't have pegged the other man as someone to get worked up over sweets. Hidden away in the darkness, he licked his lip in sympathetic reaction.

And Sherlock's real tongue mimicked the thought. _Jim_ mimicked the thought, sliding his tongue over the warm, familiar flesh of Sherlock's lips, sliding the muscle slid through, out into the cold, swiping first over the upper one and then his lower. It was such a familiar motion. Sherlock had done it a million times himself. 

Sherlock realized Jim had noticed. He tried to move backward, to hide, but he wasn't used to this state and there was nowhere _to_ hide. He couldn't disappear into some dark corner like Jim seemed to be able to. He was stuck in the spotlight, constantly subject to attention or a bit of thought-reading.

Sherlock didn't even know what it meant to find the motions attractive. The concept bordered on narcissism, something he'd never been guilty of before despite numerous accusations. His body was his own, and yet it wasn't.

He could feel the telltale pull of a smile at the corners of his mouth as Jim lifted his hand, the one that had been holding the bar. Jim raised his thumb to his mouth and, delicately a first, began to lick the melted chocolate there. He slid it between his lips, hollowing his cheeks around it, and sucked. He let his tongue slide over the ridges of Sherlock's thumbprint, collecting every bit of the sweet candy. Jim was genuinely enjoying himself. Sherlock could feel it. Jim's attention never left him, but the act wasn't for Sherlock alone.

Sherlock tried not to respond, but these sorts of things didn't listen to sheer willpower. Neither could he counteract arousal with pain, given that he didn't currently control a body to supply such a distraction. Sherlock's attention was drawn to Jim's action and his mind immediately recalled recent memories, images of bloody fingers and mouths, a tongue on skin, lips wrapped around a tip and sliding downward-

Sherlock tried to think of something else, _anything else_ , but he couldn't summon anything equal to the task. He began to try mentally reciting the elements of the periodical table.

It was even more difficult with Jim _watching_. And it was turning Jim on. From the telltale pang of lust that dropped in the bottom of Sherlock's gut, it was more than obvious that Jim liked where this was going. Loving it, in fact. He sucked in a cool breath of air between heated lips and began moving again, this time at a quickened pace down the sidewalk. There was a certain heaviness to his trousers that hadn't been there before. "Let's get you home," Jim whispered.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself and watched London pass by from his unusual vantage point. He was still confused about why this was happening - why this, why now, and especially why with _Jim_. Dozens of people had made passes at him over the course of his life, for one reason or another, and none of them had drawn any interest. He'd experimented briefly with sexuality during his teenage years, touching himself and looking at different kinds of erotic materials that others seemed to favor, and come to the conclusion that sex was an unimportant and overrated distraction. Disregarding sexuality had only bothered him before to the extent that others teased him or pressured him about it.

Now that a major part of his identity had shifted dramatically, Sherlock didn't know what to do. Moreover, he had no real experience at an age when such things were expected.

If Jim could feel his roiling emotions, he didn't let on. What had been a leisurely stroll on the way there nearly became a sprint on the way back. Jim was crossing streets at blazing speed, taking full advantage of Sherlock's long stride. He cared little for the few people they passed, nearly knocking shoulders with another man, equally as tall. They could have been severely detoured if he'd taken more offense to Jim's rudeness than a backward glare and a foul mutter. 

Jim paid no attention until they had to sneak in again, and soon he was jogging Sherlock's body back down the stairs of John’s old room to the flat. The door was quickly shut behind him. And locked. The produce bags fell to the floor. Jim had just one thing on his mind. 

"Now, where were we?" 

He stalked to the sitting room, catching sight of the mirror above the fireplace and turning to it. Again, he licked Sherlock's lips. 

Sherlock's introspection was broken the moment he did. There was something about Jim - some sort of magnetic draw that had always been there, similar to John and also entirely different. Jim was like looking in the mirror and seeing a vastly different form swaying in hypnotizing, serpentine motions, but still vaguely recognizable. To some degree or another, they were the same kind. That fascination persisted even when he hated the man, even when Jim tried to kill him or push him past the breaking point.

"Love you too, darling." Sherlock’s face in the mirror winked. Jim was reading his thoughts again. In many ways, the same could be said for Jim. He hadn't hated Sherlock before he died. It was very possible he'd _envied_ Sherlock. In many ways, Sherlock's genius was recognized, loved, in ways that Jim's could never be. Jim, with his unabashed criminality, simply wasn't made to live like Sherlock had. But then he'd died, he'd grown angry and disillusioned with the ideal he'd made Sherlock out to be. It was an unsteady truce they shared. 

But Sherlock's tongue didn't stop, and neither did Jim's playful tone. Sherlock's deep voice was utterly _unnatural_ with his lilt. 

Jim moved closer to the mirror, bringing Sherlock's fingers back to his mouth with no pretense this time. First the thumb. He slid it between his lips like he'd done out on the street, but this time they could _see_ it disappear as much as they could feel it. Sherlock's cold eyes were intense under Jim's scrutiny, but even they narrowed at the sight he made, head tipped back, long line of neck exposed, cheeks hollowing out, full lips wrapped around his own digit. 

Sherlock only grew more flustered. He couldn't tear his attention away. His mannerisms were all strange with Jim wearing his skin, and the reflection he made was bizarre to contemplate. Sherlock had simply never looked at himself this way before. Jim's motions were purposeful and had the desired effect; Sherlock didn't miss the suggestive way Jim was sucking on his fingers. All it did was remind him of what Jim had done to him before. 

_"...stop that."_

Sherlock's lips slowly spread. The grin looked feral on his face. Whenever Sherlock had adopted such a thing himself, there was a note of sarcasm to it. An affectation. Usually to challenge someone's presumptions about him. When Jim did it with Sherlock's features, there was no falsity about it whatsoever. 

"Are you sure?" Sherlock's voice rumbled, deep and still barely above a whisper. "I could show you such things about your own body…" 

Sherlock shivered. His reaction was powerful enough that it took control from Jim for a moment and his entire frame shuddered. Jim's expression and words had drawn a measure of newly-discovered lust and an equal measure of fear. Unknown territory was something Sherlock wasn't used to, and he didn't trust Jim. Particularly not with that expression. _"Yes. We're home and I only offered you control while we ran one errand. I'm not comfortable with you taking control to do this to me."_

Sherlock's eyes closed and he could feel a line of tension in his brow. That was not the answer Jim had wanted. "I can hear you thinking, Sherlock. I can _feel_ what you're feeling right now. I can see how distressing it is for you not to know your own desires." If Jim's tone was any indication, he had a certain fondness for, a certain…interest, in being Sherlock's first. Jim stood stock still in front of the mirror, eyes half shut, half hard in his trousers, all of his focus turned inward on Sherlock. But he found only nervousness. Sherlock had all the skittishness of an innocent, multiplied by the unease of one who'd been the subject of social scorn and rejection one too many times.

_"And you know just how recent this is. I've trusted you with a number of things thus far because I don't have much choice, but you **have** made it a habit to try to destroy me. You'll forgive me if I'm not confident you won't drag me in over my head and let me drown."_

Jim hissed, pulling Sherlock's lips back over his teeth like an animal. It was true, and still he bristled at being denied. It took him a second to calm down. One of his hands moved between Sherlock's legs, palming and pressing and holding the bulge there with perfect pressure, as if to emphasize his point. It sent a jolt of sensation through them both. "You're missing out," Jim growled. And then let go. 

_"Maybe so. Consider it motivation. I'm not going to agree unless and until I'm comfortable with you and confident you're not going to hurt me, and unless I'm mistaken, you're not going anywhere,"_ Sherlock pointed out. _"And I am, as you've pointed out, your only company. It's in your best interests to not make me miserable. I'm sure you can find a way to make me reconsider my answer if you're motivated enough."_

Sherlock's eyes were rolling, and that's the way he found himself when he was unceremoniously shoved to the forefront of his body again: annoyed, the lingering taste of chocolate on his tongue, and horny. He could feel Jim retreating somewhere into the back of his mind, that space he was so comfortable occupying for himself, but the world was suddenly silent and cold again. Jim had cut off whatever feeling they had shared between them. 

Sherlock sighed. He was trying. Jim was just damnably difficult to get along with, for as many similarities as they had between them. Sherlock was trying to offer small olive branches out of the understanding that Jim was just as unhappy with his situation as he was and that they _had_ to make the truce work. 

Jim's personality was just such that he pushed further and faster than Sherlock could comfortably accommodate.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning in this chapter for mention of underage sex. (Sorry guys, I have weird headcanons about Jim and his longtime obsession with Sherlock...) -Piper

Sherlock went to go pick up the abandoned groceries and put them away. His annoyance only grew when he realized his arousal wasn't going away. 

He could tell this time that Jim hadn't deserted him completely. Possibly because this time he could feel the weight of Jim's attention, like the gaze of someone just out of sight watching him. Jim would have noticed his problem, but he'd cut off their connection. Sherlock couldn't tell whether he was gloating or still frustrated or just waiting to see what Sherlock would do now with the predicament Jim had left him in.

Sherlock only became more frustrated. Their connection seemed to predominantly go one way, allowing Jim to pick up on his thoughts and emotions and rarely gifting him with the same. Certainly not to the same degree. Even now, Sherlock couldn't tell whether Jim was reading him without anything flowing back through the bond in return. He felt like an animal trapped in an observation room.

Once all his purchases had been put away, he didn't feel any better. Jim was obviously watching and waiting for something, unwilling to give him privacy. Stubborn anger flared up in Sherlock.

If Jim was waiting for a show, he'd get one, just out of reach.

Sherlock grabbed his laptop and draped himself across the sofa. Perhaps he'd have a better appreciation for educational material now that he'd “awoken”, as it were.

He could feel Jim's focus narrow and his presence shift just a little closer. There was no question now that he had the spirit's undivided attention. Still Jim was quiet. The laptop had to have surprised him at the very least. He wouldn't have expected Sherlock to go in for porn. Perhaps, after the experience with blood, Jim might have thought he was about to look up his crime scene archives.

Sherlock made himself comfortable and brought up his browser window. He decided to take a mixed approach, bringing up informational websites before using keywords and phrases to search out more detailed media. Some of the terms, ideas, and graphics were familiar because they'd proven useful for analyzing some crime scenes. Surprisingly, other pieces were new, which could only mean he'd deleted data about sex before, probably because he'd been certain that it was personally and professionally irrelevant.

Sherlock set aside heterosexual research for the moment. He was already overwhelmed, and questioning his past interactions with women wasn't going to lead anywhere. What he needed to figure out was a way to process what he was feeling _right now_ in his current situation and to get a map of the possibilities... and what he didn't want.

Jim finally broke the silence in the back of his head. _"Oh dear lord, you really are looking at porn."_

Sherlock caught a trace of exasperation from Jim's direction, if it could be called a direction. Jim scoffed at the links Sherlock brought up, one after another. He didn't seem to be at all interested in any of them. And at first they were much the same. Toned, tanned young men in bright lighting. Colorful, high definition, and very posed. 

"Far less embarrassing than going out and questioning some acquaintances on the street." Sherlock had done a good turn for vulnerable sex workers several times over, enough that a number of them had formed part of his network of eyes and ears. In return, Sherlock discreetly helped whenever one of them had a case for law enforcement and worried about complications or unfair dismissal. None of them would have objected to questions, but Sherlock wasn't comfortable asking when it was for personal reasons.

As before, none of the materials were doing much for Sherlock. Everything was contrived, the men overwhelmingly of a particular sort of physiology - almost hypermasculine, the sort one would expect to see in a weight room. A few images had unsubtle props signaling military life, and Sherlock was embarrassed to realize that those summoned an echo of... something in him. The rest were overwhelmingly boring.

_"What a shame you don't have someone who actually entices you on hand…."_ Jim cooed like an echo in the back of Sherlock's mind. 

A ghostly trickle of warmth spread down Sherlock's chest, settling just below his stomach, tantalizingly resting there where it pooled into a warm pressure. Like a touch, but not. More like a sensation just beneath the skin, like a part of Sherlock's own body, but again, not.

Sherlock took a shaky breath. He tried to ignore it, but Jim must have been able to tell he was failing. Sherlock felt himself twitch, much to his embarrassment. His fingers moved across the keyboard and track pad to try another search.

Quite by accident, this one proved more fruitful. Tucked among more of the same boring materials, there were a few photos of younger men, one of which had very dark, slicked-back hair. Another photo had two young men kissing, one holding the other whose hands were bound behind his back with a rope. A third had an intriguing assortment of equipment in the background - flails, knives, and several things Sherlock had never seen before. 

He could feel Jim laugh softly. He still didn't seem interested, himself, but _Sherlock's_ interest caught his attention. And he didn't miss the subtle connection. 

_"Remind you of someone?"_ Jim whispered. _"Is that how you imagine my basement might look?"_ If Sherlock were to put the dark haired man in the foreground of the last photo, he might have been able to create a decent homage to Jim Moriarty. 

_"I have no idea how your basement might look."_ Jim's appearances had always been carefully constructed. It would have been unwise to speculate, just because he'd chosen to present in a certain way, that those tastes extended to everything else. Point in fact, with the brief interests Jim had displayed at the store earlier, it was just as likely that his basement might have looked like a child's room, full of toys and treats and whimsical constructions. Or it could have been cold and minimalistic, like the void in his mind. 

Sherlock continued through the photos. Some of them had blood in them, or reddening skin, far more alive than the crime scene photos he'd sneakily saved for his own collection of oddities. Blood quickly lost its vibrancy at crime scenes, and corpses were predominantly dull grey with deep, violet bruises instead of sporting a healthy flush of color.

The photos were still contrived, but artfully so. Yet Jim still paid them only enough mind to follow Sherlock's thought processes. He grew quiet again as Sherlock browsed, probably knowing even if he hadn't been able to resist before that every time he spoke, he was only distracting Sherlock from a path they both, tentatively, wanted him to follow. 

Sherlock was starting to draw conclusions. Clearly he'd been even more uncomfortable with physicality when he was younger, for various reasons, but either something had changed, or what he'd tried and looked at before simply hadn’t been to his tastes. Images and practices that appeared to be common, even within the subculture of the gay community, did not hold his attention. He was beginning to spot signs that explained some of his unusual interactions with other people in his life, which evidently had had an effect in his subconscious without him realizing what it was: authority and domination, blood, fear. Danger and experimentation. Helplessness. Age differences. All of which cast his relationships with John, Irene, Jim and, to his horror, a bit of his relationship with Lestrade into a different light.

The unnaturally warm pressure just below his stomach hadn't moved.

Jim must have sensed his focus on it because ever so minutely, it spread. It dipped lower and when Sherlock didn't react at first, it continued, spreading to the base of his spine, just shy of his groin. And there, it _pulsed_.  
Sherlock made a strangled noise and turned on instinct, as if it were a normal touch he could shy away from. His laptop clattered to the floor and snapped shut. Turning hadn't made a bit of a difference. He could still feel whatever Jim was doing.

 _"Do you still not want my help?"_ the silky voice came again, this time with a note of softness someone like Jim shouldn't have been able to own so well. But he did. Jim could be as soft as he was sharp, even if Sherlock knew he was just as dangerous either way. The heat didn't go away and neither did the light, tantalizing pressure, but they also didn't increase. 

Sherlock was torn. His curiosity had always gotten the better of him before, sometimes with dire consequences. A mind like his required constant stimuli and intellectual feeding. The problem was Jim. Jim was dangerous and unpredictable, and Sherlock still hadn't forgotten or forgiven him for what had transpired in their first few encounters. "...how, exactly, are you proposing to 'help'?"

_"Since you won't allow me to stimulate you with your own body, I propose to do so otherwise. …while you stimulate yourself."_ Jim illustrated his point further. The heat spread out a little more. It pulsed again. Over Sherlock's very sensitive parts. 

Sherlock clenched his jaw. It took concerted effort not to make a sound after that. He shook his head. _"No. Not like this."_ It was worse, somehow, not being able to see Jim, lacking even the illusion that he could fight back and control the situation. Just one more reminder that Jim seemed able to reach through his body to do whatever he pleased, whether for pain or for pleasure. 

_"How then?"_ Jim whispered without missing a beat, voice as smooth as velvet. Sherlock may not have been giving him what he wanted, but he knew he had Sherlock on edge. Sherlock was uniquely a creature of both thought and sensation, and right now, above all, he was _curious_. With every passing second of tempting heat, Jim sank his claws in deeper. 

_"You took me under before."_ Sherlock had been awake one moment, and down in dream reality the next. Whatever else it was, the dreams were real. The bite on his neck, and the bruising on his hand, were proof enough of that. Jim also seemed unable to read his mind there, which meant he wasn't entirely exposed both inside and out. _"I'm not interacting with you like this, where you can touch me and pick all the thoughts out of my head and I can't see or touch you."_

Jim laughed softly. _"So you'd prefer me face to face, then?"_ He seemed to take special pleasure in hearing Sherlock say it, even if it was for other reasons altogether. _"How could I refuse?"_ As Jim spoke, Sherlock could feel it coming on already, at first sudden tiredness. Then his head began to spin. There was no time to right himself or lie down comfortably. He was pulled under from the very core of his chest, like falling into a cavity, a black hole inside himself. 

When he opened his eyes again, Jim stood before him in one of his immaculate suits, hair just as dark and slick as the model's, eyes far sharper. 

He was, surprisingly, set against the same backdrop he’d been in only seconds ago, the familiar sitting room of 221B. It was still dark, but it was warm outside, enough for the light breeze finding its way in to be a pleasant caress against Sherlock's face. When Jim smiled, Sherlock could tell that had been intentional. 

Behind him, however, on one of Sherlock's experiment tables, was an assortment of items he'd just discovered in the photographs. 

Sherlock's eyes widened as he took in their surroundings. He recognized this room - 221B as it was when he'd first become independent, before he'd found a flatmate who’d worked out. He understood why Jim would have chosen this place. It was one of the few rooms that radiated security, because that was what it had been: the first space that he owned, away from his parents and nosy university acquaintances, away from the dangers of the street. Mycroft had put cameras outside, of course, but inside the flat was entirely his.

Jim slinked closer with the relaxed focus of a predator. Sherlock couldn't help but crawl backward. "...you know, just because I was looking at photographs doesn't mean I want to try what was in them."

The slight man shrugged one shoulder. He held a careless smile now. "Best to come prepared, I say. After all, 'you never know until you try'." 

Jim stopped just before Sherlock and leaned slightly into his space. His hands folded before him, delicately boned. Jim's head tilted from side to side as he considered Sherlock. With the light breeze billowing the curtains out behind him, he might have been, as he'd said once upon a time, a storybook villain. 

The picturesque situation might have stuck Sherlock as funny if he hadn't been so aware of the danger. He could feel his own rapid pulse. The light was such that Jim took on alien qualities with his too-dark eyes and the slight reptilian motions that he seemed to make unconsciously. It was funny how Jim as a spirit scared Sherlock far more than he had when he was alive.

Part of him recognized an undertone to the feeling now. It might have always been there, but he now had a better theory for what it was. It was the same feeling he'd gotten when looking at some of the photographs... and the same when Jim had taken him to the seaside room again.

"Why so nervous, Sherlock?" Jim asked softly, "After all, we're here now, in your mind. You can do to me whatever I can do to you just as easily. Would that _excite_ you…?" Jim's knees spread just an inch wider. One of his hands broke away to ride up his inseam. "To have me under your hands? Bound like those photographs?" Jim's smile widened when Sherlock's eyes followed the lure. All at once he was diving forward, causing Sherlock to jump, until Jim, in spite of his size, pushed him down and had him splayed out on the floor, hovering only inches apart, beady black eyes bright with intent. "Because that's how I would _love_ to have _you_."

Sherlock stayed still. He had a feeling that sudden movements would only make Jim more aggressive. "...you'd let me try that out on you?" Sherlock wouldn't know what to do, but he was far more at ease with the idea of having Jim as a subject, rather than placing his trust in the other man and hoping he came out unbroken. He hadn't minded touching Jim before, when Jim had asked for reciprocation. He'd enjoyed the chance to get closer. It was the idea of being in the center of Jim's sexual focus that made him freeze up.

"Oh _yesss_." Jim's eyes flashed with unholy delight. His hands came up to, surprisingly gently, cup Sherlock's face. "You can do anything you'd like to me here. Well. Assuming I don't fight back, of course." Somehow his smile never wavered. "But if I like what you do, I promise I won't." 

That was an angle Sherlock hadn't considered. He hadn't expected Jim to assent so easily. The smaller man had such an overbearing, dominating presence that he hadn't seemed likely to ever want to be put in the position of the men in the photographs.

Sherlock flushed. He wasn't prepared to go quite that far. "...get off me, then. I can't do anything with you pinning me to the floor."

Jim stroked a finger down Sherlock's cheek and slowly removed himself from Sherlock's prone form. He melted easily into a crouch, perched and waiting patiently for Sherlock to right himself, or at least crawl into an upright position. 

"What would you like to do to me?" Jim asked, far too smoothly for someone who had just agreed to be on the receiving end of Sherlock's sexual experimentation. As he was, however, Jim looked positively untouchable. 

Sherlock was just asking himself the same question. He hadn't fantasized about Jim before - not in _this_ way, at least. He had a general idea of what was possible, but this was entirely new territory.

Sherlock got to his feet and turned his gaze toward the tools on the table. One notion stood out above everything else: he felt more comfortable if Jim couldn't turn the tables on him. "...I want to tie you up."

Jim's smile turned crooked with mirth. "Of course you do." But he rose and twisted on his heels to follow Sherlock and held up his wrists like he was about to be cuffed. None of it diminished the glint of exhilaration in his eyes. Being in their shared dream world, Jim could make any number of things go very wrong, very suddenly. Even though Sherlock had been able to impose his will on Jim before, Jim had turned the tables just as easily. "Come on, then." Jim held his arms out just a little higher, offering himself up. 

Sherlock grabbed a length of rope from the table and unwound it. He kept his eyes on Jim while he readied the knot, but the shorter man was still and compliant. Eerily so. Sherlock hadn't forgotten the lesson from when he thought he'd had Jim cuffed before; this place could change in a heartbeat. Jim wouldn't necessarily be restrained and helpless.

Still, the illusion helped.

Sherlock slid Jim's wrists through the loops and finished wrapping and securing the knot, then started to walk backward, pulling Jim with him. The detective picked up one of the knives along the way.

One polished shoe squeaked against the floor as Jim followed. Even with the knife in hand, Sherlock wouldn't take his eyes off him, and Jim returned the sentiment in kind. His gaze, however, was far more appreciative, even when following the blade shifting between Sherlock's strong fingers. He had no fear. Not of Sherlock, not of the knife, not even of the rest of their surrounding mind palace. Dying hadn't done that to him. 

Jim followed all the way through the kitchen, passing long forgotten experiments along the way, and into Sherlock's bedroom. The windows were open here, too, and the warm breeze still caressing Sherlock’s skin as they moved.

Sherlock turned them and guided Jim down onto the bed. His attention was diverted for a moment while he secured the other end of the rope to the bed frame, jerking Jim's wrists above his head. He wondered if this had ever featured in any of the fantasies Jim had had of him; he'd been a sexual focus for the other man for some years, it seemed, and Jim had certainly visited the flat before he'd come for tea that once. Probably had even visited this room.

Dark eyes were still fixed on him when his gaze shifted back. Jim might as well have not been tied at all, for all that he showed any uncertainty. A sly smile still played on his lips.

Sherlock leaned closer and brandished the knife, then carefully began to cut Jim's suit off of him.

A long exhale parted Jim's lips, almost a laugh, but not quite right. He slipped his own shoes off, kicking them from the bed when he was free. He laid himself out for Sherlock, raising his chest for the blade without hesitation. Even his hips shifted impatiently, knees parting the slightest bit wider. 

Jim's gaze danced between Sherlock and the blade in his hands as pale, supple skin was revealed to the soft light. He held no regret for the suit as it fell away from his chest, rising and falling and very, very alive. His heart beat beneath it. His lungs expanded and contracted to give him breath. All encased in human bone, even if Jim was barely human at all. 

"Would you like to use that on me?" Jim asked softly as the knife hovered over his sternum, "Find out if I have a heart after all?"

"I know you do. Physically." Sherlock wasn't his brother. He didn't have a taste for torture or a need to see another human being squirm. He was very interested in Jim's reactions, but not to pain. From what he'd seen, Jim was nearly immune to pain. 

Sherlock watched Jim's chest rise and fall, and the way Jim was looking at him. The other man arched slightly, as if he was daring Sherlock, or perhaps trying to tempt him. It worked; Sherlock dragged his fingertips down Jim's chest. "Why? What were you hoping I was going to do?"

Jim's eyes closed at the sensation. Sherlock's nails caught lightly. 

"I was hoping you might find something you _do_ enjoy. Think. What is a heart for, if not for the feeble and the lovesick?" Jim's small teeth made an appearance. He had discovered one thing about Sherlock's tastes so far, and had used it to great advantage the last time. Thick veins, thrumming with life, stood out in his throat when he tipped his head back. 

Sherlock had already considered that option; it had entered his mind as soon as the first bit of fabric had been peeled away to reveal pale skin. What he found more interesting was how responsive Jim was. Sherlock paused to observe. "...you're very enthusiastic. Are you that desperate for me to touch you that you'll take anything? Even a knife tip?" For someone deriding the lovesick, Jim certainly seemed bound by his own personal desires.

"You make is sound like _torture_ ," Jim purred, his smile only curling wider, daring Sherlock to take the bait. 

It wasn't so highly questionable why Jim would choose to take this route in seducing Sherlock. It had, after all, worked once, and Jim would be both unharmed in the long term, assumedly, and able to overlook the pain. But as in all things Jim did, there was a subtle undercurrent to all this. Handing over dominance. Encouraging the knife. Jim had explicitly said this encounter between them was about exploration on Sherlock's part, with Jim's guidance. With his training, he implied Sherlock would be able to let go of his insecurities, insecurities which Jim thought to be holding him back from much more than just sex.

"It could be, in the hands of the wrong person." Jim wasn't drawing back, however. He showed no reservations, and Sherlock was forced to admit that he _did_ want to try it. Just for a taste. He hadn't really gotten to enjoy the moment when he'd bitten Jim before. There'd been too much fear and despair distracting him.

"Hold still," Sherlock muttered. He raised the knife and slowly trailed the blade down an unmarked portion of Jim's chest, touching just enough to draw a paper thin line. The result was somewhat disappointing, but still filled with crimson after a few moments. Sherlock touched his fingertips to the wound.

Jim's eyes closed. A soft laugh escaped his throat. He let Sherlock take a moment, a moment to fixate on the little bead that wetted his fingers. It was the most vibrant red. 

"I think you can do better than that," Jim said softly, shifting to open himself up to Sherlock just a little more. He'd barely drawn more than a scratch along Jim's chest and Jim had reacted more to his touch afterward than the knife itself. 

Sherlock took another moment to contemplate the scratch before meeting Jim's gaze. For a fully grown adult, something about Sherlock was awfully young. It filtered into his entire demeanor at times and filled his eyes; Sherlock was one of those people who'd never completely matured, partially because he'd never been forced to. Even with the rough times in his life and regular exposure to crime scenes and demonstrations of human cruelty, part of him was still innocent. "I don't actually want to hurt you."

Jim's smile in return softened. It was amazing how he could respond like that to Sherlock's vulnerability. His arm tugged against the bindings, forgetting for a moment he was tied, and Sherlock got a very clear picture of Jim intending to reach down and guide the knife himself. He could have, but instead he kept his hands where they were. 

"You won't," Jim soothed.

Sherlock's brow furrowed, but he picked another patch of skin. The blade wouldn't have cut much deeper by itself, but Jim moved while Sherlock was drawing the knife down. Blood welled to the surface far quicker this time, spilling over the valley that had been carved. Sherlock gasped softly at the sight.

It was so different than the crime scenes he was called to. That blood was always hours old at least, losing the unreal vibrancy and fluidity as it clotted and the cells slowly died. Before he was aware that he was moving, Sherlock found that he'd pressed his lips to the wound. His tongue darted out for a taste.

"Ah," Jim gasped, but not in pain. His chest welled again, trying to meet Sherlock in the way Sherlock was meeting him. 

When Sherlock licked, Jim inhaled sharply. His legs parted when Sherlock bent over the bed for better access. Jim had made sure this wound would spring forth a well of his blood and was not at all sorry for it, judging by the way he groaned when Sherlock moved up the broken seam of flesh to collect more as it seeped out. 

Sherlock wasn't unaffected - not by the taste, or the sound, or the feel of Jim moving underneath him. The last two were still unfamiliar, but buried instinct recognized them and summoned memories of other recent interactions. Sherlock had to pause for a moment when he remembered Jim's mouth on him.

Blood refilled the gash when he paused, and Sherlock made a second pass. He could taste Jim's skin around the copper tang of blood, and when he reached the end of the wound he found that he wanted to keep going. Sherlock only hesitated for a second or two before, almost shyly, he began to let his mouth trail higher.

He could feel Jim _shiver_ underneath him. He could barely see Jim in his periphery, watching him lightly kiss and lick his way up Jim's sternum. Jim's chest rose and fell with deep breaths. His moans turned into small, almost silent sounds of pleasure, like he were trying not to frighten Sherlock away. 

Jim's hands tightened around the rope holding them. Sherlock could feel the light tension in his muscles. Jim wanted to free himself, and yet he remained patient. As patient as he could be. 

Sherlock kept going. He was driven by more than curiosity now, or the subtle echoes of pleasure he was getting. Jim _never_ lost control, but from what Sherlock could see, bits of his facade were cracking. Jim wanted something from him in more than just a power play, or a desire to corrupt, or to punish. He could hear the rope straining from the tension Jim was putting on it.

Sherlock risked a glance up.

He was engulfed in Jim's eyes immediately. Everything else was secondary, Jim's small, parted mouth, the way the light glanced off the sharp bone in his jaw and temple, how a few strands of his slick hair had become disheveled. Restraining a person via one's gaze was a figure of speech, but Jim turned it into an art. His eyes were hypnotizing, so dark they were nearly reflective of the streetlamp just outside Sherlock's window. Jim drew him forward without words, reeling Sherlock in through his will alone. 

Sherlock moved until they were almost touching, face to face. His own mouth was tinted redder than normal and his pupils were blown. Sherlock searched Jim's face and tried to remember what he was supposed to be doing. He was moving blindly, and he didn't know how to put what he _did_ know into action, or what he wanted to try. He was familiar with human anatomy and all the places where nerve clusters were more dense. None of that seemed to match most of what he'd seen of online erotica, though. The subjects of the camera had seemed to move without needing to think or know anything.

Jim did not seem to mind his hesitation though. His eyes bore into Sherlock, eating up every detail of his features, the subtle signs in his expression that seemed to tell Jim more, because Jim didn't seem worried. He had Sherlock hooked, pinned more firmly that Sherlock had him literally. And when Jim was finished, he stretched closer, straining just enough to touch their mouths together. He didn't kiss or lick or bite, just held himself there, lips surprisingly soft against the corner of Sherlock's mouth, waiting. 

Slowly, Sherlock pressed back. Jim coaxed him like he was a frighten animal, and Sherlock was intelligent enough to realize it, but not able to stop his strategy from working. Part of the draw _was_ that it seemed so genuine, rather than the acts Jim slipped into when manipulating anyone else. 

Sherlock pulled back after a few moments and weighed his options. "...I don't really know what I'm doing."

"That doesn't matter. This is about us, and only us." Jim settled down on the bed, arms relaxing above his head and revealing marks where his pale wrists had so easily reddened. He could have said 'you'. This was Sherlock's exploration. But that would have been a lie. Even tied up and restrained, there was no way for this to not involve Jim just as much as it did Sherlock. No one else could have pushed Sherlock so far. 

Sherlock didn't think he had instincts where this was concerned. Or perhaps he'd managed to delete them in some of his internal purges. He didn't know what to do, or how far he wanted to go, but he was certain of one thing: he wanted Jim as he'd been only a few moments ago. There was something fascinating about making Jim lose control and partially drop his mask, and Sherlock wasn't certain that anyone else had ever managed it. He wanted to see what lay underneath it all.

Sherlock leaned in again, this time concentrating on what he knew about human physique. His lips drifted along Jim's jawline, then the curve of one ear before he continued down his neck. He skirted the older bite mark, tracing Jim’s collarbone instead.

"Oooh…" Jim cooed and shivered. His body writhed in small, impatient motions under Sherlock while his hands gripped the rope above him. When Sherlock glanced out of the corner of his eye, he caught Jim biting his lip, watching Sherlock's progress. 

It looked like Jim was doing all he could to let Sherlock move at his own pace. 

The evidence that Jim was trying to hold back and hold onto control, and failing in small ways, was what encouraged Sherlock. Trying to force his hand would only make Sherlock summon every bit of his stubborn streak, but presenting him with something that engaged both his curiosity and sense of challenge was an irresistible lure.

Sherlock followed down the line of Jim's sternum. He wasn't ready to try some of the other things he'd seen in some of the photos and videos - they seemed too overtly sexual, more than he was comfortable with. He got down to Jim's solar plexus and noticed the body underneath him was quivering. Sherlock glanced up again.

Jim's mouth fell open. He let himself breathe while they locked gazes. There was no question Jim could see just how much Sherlock was studying him, and in fact all for the purpose of taking him apart. That was what Jim had wanted, in a sexual manner, at least. Even though initially he'd wanted to be the one to bend Sherlock to his will and desires, although Jim having given up on that endeavor was very unlikely. 

The slim hips underneath Sherlock shifted. Impatient. Jim raised an eyebrow, not unaffected, but fighting it. 

Sherlock crawled backwards and off of Jim, just far enough that the man could tell he wasn't leaving. He took a moment to look at the sight Jim made, bound and stretched out against the covers, trousers straining. Sherlock felt incredibly nervous despite the fact he knew he'd done far more dangerous or taboo things in his life, many times over. Time felt abnormally slow as he reached forward and undid the fastenings on Jim's trousers, then pulled them off. Jim's pants followed, and Sherlock was left frozen and staring, trying to figure out what he wanted to do.

He heard a quiet moan from Jim when he'd waited too long. 

The man's eyes had fallen half shut, but he was by no means relaxed. Tension wound throughout every muscle in his body, straining nearly as much as his erection. He hissed a breath through clenched teeth. "Sherlock…" but wherever that sentence had been going, whether a plea or a demand, Jim cut himself off. 

It had been enough. Enough to shake Sherlock out of his stupor, and enough of a tease that he wanted more. Sherlock didn't know whether he'd be able to get Jim to crack, but he wanted to try. Jim's inner self was an enigma he wanted to solve. He'd wanted to solve it ever since they'd truly met, when Jim was no longer pretending to being a mundane IT technician.

Sherlock let out a slow breath and moved forward again. Jim's cock was rigid against his stomach and the obvious center of his focus, but Sherlock ignored it. He picked up where he'd left off, skirting around until he reached the hollow right above Jim's hip. Tentatively, he ran his tongue along the groove line.

Jim groaned in frustration. His eyes squeezed shut, and so did his mouth, but the sound reverberated from his throat. It was high and whiny and should have been made by someone half his age. And yet he cut it off, reigned himself in again, and only rocked his hips minutely toward Sherlock's mouth. When Jim finally opened his eyes, his face was as slack as it could be with teeth still clenched, but he was ready again just to watch Sherlock. 

Sherlock was having trouble taking his eyes off of Jim. The man's reactions were far more enthralling than abstract ideas of lust and sex. Sherlock had no particular attraction to the general human form, of whatever sex, but he was beginning to understand and slowly accept that he _did_ have an attraction to Jim. Likely it was an attraction to his mind, a vague recognition of a kindred spirit to a greater or lesser degree, but this had expanded outward to encompass the rest of him. Sherlock would never had noticed it, much less acknowledged it, had he not been forced to do so. Jim would have remained an abstract, distant psychological puzzle instead of a real person that was invading Sherlock's personal space and demanding his attention. Demanding as much as he could get.

Sherlock debated with himself. He hadn't liked the brief taste he'd had before, and everything within society implied that this particular action was supposedly demeaning. That hadn't stopped Jim, however... and nothing said he had to continue if he ruled it unpleasant. Sherlock swallowed, moved over a few centimeters, and ran his tongue up Jim's cock.

Jim's head fell back, a sharp sound escaped his throat, but he caught the motion and snapped back to look at Sherlock just as soon as it happened. His eyes fixed on Sherlock's face. His mouth remained open, panting softly with every inch Sherlock progressed. Jim didn't try to move his hips this time, endeavoring again not to frighten Sherlock off. His knees, however, parted wider and he couldn't help straining at the rope when Sherlock reached the very tip. 

Sherlock had decided the taste wasn't as bad as he'd feared. A mixture of salt and skin musk made it impossible for him to ignore what he was doing, but who he was doing it to seemed to overshadow everything else. Sherlock was disappointed that Jim had regained vocal control so quickly, but the small signs were there - Jim was unraveling a bit at the edges. Sherlock's grey eyes picked up on the tension in the rope and in the way Jim had shifted beneath him.

Sherlock steeled himself and, gaze fixed on Jim's face, took the tip of Jim's cock into his mouth.

Jim's mouth dropped farther. He strained not to thrust up and Sherlock could feel it. Inside his mouth, Jim's cock twitched. When he held like that for too long, Jim's breaths grew a little unsteady. Jim wouldn't take his eyes off Sherlock though, and with the street light falling through the window beside them and jut the very head of Jim's dock in Sherlock’s mouth, body bent over the rest of him, Jim was likely seeing one of his fantasies come to life. 

"Be careful Sherlock…" Jim whispered unevenly, "You might make me break your headboard." 

Sherlock was still adjusting to the taste and trying to figure out how he felt about... this. Precum had a different flavor and texture than clean skin, and not in a way Sherlock found particularly attractive or enjoyable. It just _was_ , and the thought of what he must look like was an awkward image to grapple with. Jim's expression and words, however...

Sherlock slid a little lower, just until his throat started to rebel and close up and send him coughing. Jim hadn't seemed to mind. His eyes were still fixed on Sherlock, who watched the muscles in his upper body flex. Sherlock felt a spike of unease; he wasn't certain Jim really was restrained at all, but just giving him the illusion of it. Part of him wondered that if he did too much, Jim would force him to go further.

"Shhh… It's ok…" Jim breathed above him. Like he were a hurt and nervous child. Jim's words couldn't be trusted, but he made them soothing all the same. If his hands were free, he'd be running them through Sherlock's hair. Jim calmed himself again, evening out his breath, stilling the tiny, squirming movements he made. 

He seemed to be going through a lot of trouble to get Sherlock to do this. Even if it was for Sherlock's sake, Jim certainly still benefitted from it. The question still remained just how much he would do for Sherlock when it didn't also benefit him. Sherlock wasn't unaware of the manipulation. It took a certain level of mastery for it to be obvious and yet so effective that it succeeded anyway. 

And Sherlock _did_ feel soothed.

He couldn't taste anything unusual anymore, which was a relief. Sherlock thought back to what Jim had done to him and, like a record, started to play the recording. Or the transcription of it. He sucked and ran his tongue around the head of Jim's cock and was rewarded with a gasp further up the bed.

" _Sherlock…_ " Jim breathed again, his chest rising and falling with slow, deliberately slow, breaths. It must have been a little strange for Jim, to allow himself to become one of Sherlock's experiments, but he was the one who sparked the idea. He was the one who offered himself up. 

Sherlock couldn't tell if Jim was being genuine or not. Clearly, Jim was feeling _something_ ; his body was reacting, and he'd had little slips of control here and there. Or perhaps they'd also been carefully calculated and shown. Sherlock was good at pretending to be someone else, but Jim was a master at it, slipping into masks so deeply that not even he could spot the seams.

One thing Sherlock did know about Jim's personality was that he wasn't normally submissive. He must have thought this would help him reach a particular end, or he wanted Sherlock to be sexually engaged with him so badly that he would take whatever he could get. Sherlock frowned in thought. He needed to test this theory, see how far Jim was willing to let him go. Pain didn't faze him and didn't register in his mind as dominance, but other things might.

Sherlock pulled off of Jim and turned to the side. Concentration had materialized restraints for Jim before, and it was plausible that he'd be able to _think_ what he needed into existence.

Jim made a frustrated sound at the loss of Sherlock’s mouth. He twisted into the rope, but watched Sherlock lose himself to thought. Jim's eyes narrowed. It was subtle, but it was there. "What do you want, Sherlock?" he whispered, holding still. He didn't hide the wary interest in his tone. 

"You without pretense," Sherlock countered. 

The trick worked well enough, and Sherlock leaned over to reach for what had materialized on the floor. What he intended was going to require him to draw on his knowledge of anatomy and hope it would suffice, but the idea wasn't repulsive or frightening. Not when he wasn't the subject. 

"You seem willing to let me do things to you within certain bounds, but only so far as you can take while feeling in control. You want me to trust you, but you won't let me see exactly who I'm supposed to trust, nor to give me good reasons to do so." Sherlock opened a cap and reminded himself that this was clinical - it was only touch, it was just an experiment, he was in control.

A sudden spark came into Jim's eyes. The wariness melted away from his expression entirely. A slow smile spread over his lips and his eyes narrowed again, but this time with anticipation. 

"There you go, needing everything to be clever again," Jim whispered softly, eagerness written into every detail of his body language. "You think you don't understand me, and rationally, you don't. But _intuitively_ , you do. If you would only open your eyes and _see_."

"I'm not certain I do." Sherlock coated his fingers; Jim's reaction had told him what he need to know. This experiment might not work in the way he was hoping it would, but Jim had anticipated him and had no objections. Sherlock hadn't quite expected Jim's obsession to extend that far. "I don't think you understand me either, or you wouldn't have been surprised about a number of things recently and we wouldn't have so many... issues."

Trust issues, connection issues. Sherlock couldn't trust a person he couldn't really see or understand, and couldn't reach the level of connection necessary for what Jim wanted from him. Jim wanted to have and indulge while staying hidden away behind his layers of masks and shields, and Sherlock couldn't stomach that.

Sherlock reached down, his touch light and careful. Medical charts surfaced in the back of his mind.

"Your need to please those people you call friends, family…" Jim breathed as Sherlock's fingers slid down the cleft of his arse. His legs parted for it. "Those ties just strong enough to keep you on their side. No, I don't understand that." To Jim, they weren't worthy. Not enough to compete with him for Sherlock's attention. "How you cling to them…" 

Jim was, perhaps…jealous. In life he'd all but ignored the people who'd surrounded Sherlock. Except to threaten their lives. And belittle John. It had only been one or two comments. But Sherlock had seen the derision in Jim at the time.

"I've come to value some ties. It's a weakness and a strength." Sherlock had only been able to see it as the latter once he'd given up on being untouchable and let the connections form. He had pressure points, now, but also support to keep him from cracking and give him greater endurance. "I don't know why you're so dismissive. You cling to me. You chased me and did all sorts of things to try to catch my attention and engage me. You just didn't know how to keep me and didn't care about me as a person."  
Sherlock's finger circled and, slowly, pressed forward. He didn't have a good idea of just how much pressure was comfortable. It could very well be that Jim wouldn't care one way or the other.

Jim exhaled slowly, staring down his body, trying to see Sherlock's finger disappearing inside him. His pupils dilated. "You _fascinated_ me, Sherlock. But they were in my _way_. What could I be to you other than your villain?" Jim's smile flashed before it fell away, a hint of the game they'd played back then. "After all the role fit me perfectly. In the little detective story you'd written yourself, what else could I have been? You know me _enough_ to know nothing else would have done."

Sherlock's attention split between what he was doing and Jim's reactions. He couldn't tell if he was hurting Jim and Jim was just ignoring it, or if the man was actually enjoying it. "No, I know why you decided to play the villain. And you did it perfectly for what that role required. The problem was that you wanted more than that and didn't know how to get to that point." 

Sherlock slid his finger deeper. The sensation and reality of what he was doing was unusual, but not as unpleasant as he'd expected it might be. He crooked the digit upward, searching for what he knew had to be there. "Was that why you decided to have a slighted lover's murder-suicide? Because you were stuck and couldn't figure out how to get what you wanted?"

The way Jim's back arched told Sherlock he'd hit his mark. Pink lips parted and it took a moment for Jim to answer. There was no question _that_ had caused him pleasure, a great amount of it when Sherlock continued to press. He let the sensation play out, perhaps stalling for time on a reply he didn't want to give. If Jim's obsession went as deep as he suggested, it was very likely Sherlock was right. It fit with Jim's bitterness over his friends, and Sherlock's feelings for John. 

"If I couldn't have you, no one would?" Jim screwed up his voice in falsetto, mocking the clichéd line as much as his own intentions. But he dropped it a second later. "You don't understand, do you, what kind of hell living can be…" 

"No, I do." Of course he did. Sherlock couldn't see how Jim could have missed that - the daredevil stunts, living in dangerous parts of town. The drugs he'd taken to try to drown everything out, and the way they'd never quite been enough. He'd been so close to death, more times than he could really count, but been forcibly hauled up into... something resembling respectable society. He'd found a niche that was tolerable most of the time, and an addiction that didn't completely destroy him at the end of every high. "I just stumbled into a life that didn't hurt as much."

Sherlock crooked his finger again.

"And that's why you didn't jump." Jim looked almost pained when his face screwed up with pleasure that time. He trembled when Sherlock kept stroking, back and forth. Jim's hips jerked. 

Jim had tried to drag Sherlock down to his own level in the very end. He'd certainly been unwilling to bring himself up to Sherlock's. He'd done it so suddenly, playing the game so smoothly, never veering off course, never stepping out of his role. If he'd wanted Sherlock then, in this way, he had probably given up on having him. 

Jim's lack of additional commentary told Sherlock he'd hit his mark. He wondered what that meant, that Jim had found life intolerable but continued for years, only to decide to give up... when he was unreachable. Jim must have been more than obsessed with him for that to push him over the edge.

Sherlock wasn't naturally inclined toward empathy. He couldn't be manipulated by the sob stories of clients or suspects, and he generally didn't care whether or not strangers were distressed. People who'd gotten close to him were different in that regard, and Jim had gotten to that point. Sherlock still had lingering anger and resentment, but the suggestions that had gone unspoken and what they signified touched him more than he was expecting. And he understood, now, just a little about why Jim had been so furious that he hadn't died with him.

He thrust his finger in and out, then tried adding a second. Sherlock's free hand reached up to stroke across Jim's hip. 

Jim's eyes fluttered, but stayed open just enough to watch. They followed the motion. It was difficult to tell whether he read anything into it. Sherlock hadn't really touched him out of affection yet, and that motion wasn't necessarily a part of the experiment. Unless Jim suspected Sherlock had a greater goal in mind. Still, Jim didn't speak up again. He raised his hips to meet Sherlock's fingers, never showing a single sign of pain. 

Sherlock had difficulty being affectionate in general. His attempts often weren't interpreted as such by their recipients, and he'd been discouraged from trying to express such things too often by constant misunderstanding. Jim also hadn't given him many reasons to be affectionate - when he'd tried to summon such emotions, Jim's responses hadn't been equally thoughtful.

Sherlock knew now that Jim wouldn't tell him what he wanted to know. Not in words. Even nonverbal responses would be tricky, because Jim was simply too good at hiding himself. 

His lower hand didn't stop moving, but his other hand paused. "...what do you want, Jim?"

"I want you inside me," Jim said without hesitation. "And I want my hands free." 

Jim raised his chin. He held their gaze. The last was a small act of trust. Sherlock might be able to deny him and still satisfy Jim with the former. But Jim had seemed to want to touch Sherlock from the very beginning of all this, even if that was the very thing Sherlock wanted to avoid.

Sherlock considered this and balked. He didn't think he could manage that. Jim was certain of himself and had enough experience to know what he liked and what he wanted, no doubt, but Sherlock had only just started to acknowledge that he might not be completely asexual. What might seem insignificant to Jim was a chasm to Sherlock, and one he didn't think he could navigate quite yet. "...I can't. I can untie you if you don't try to force things, but I can't do that."

Jim groaned in frustration. His shoulders tensed and his head fell back. " _Fine_. Hands. At least." 

There was no question he was disappointed by the refusal, and what he would accept instead from Sherlock might be a problem when compared to what Sherlock wanted to give. But…he was asking. He could break the bonds, but he was asking instead. To his obvious frustration. 

Sherlock realized as much. Ropes were nothing, after all, when compared with shackles. He withdrew his fingers, ignoring the sound Jim made in response, and moved up to unravel the knots keeping Jim's hands in place. The change in position made him that much more aware of how imbalanced their power dynamic currently was; he was still clothed, but for all that Jim was physically bare and momentarily compliant, Jim still had the upper hand.

Jim was less human and more viper, spread out beneath Sherlock and lying docile for now when could so easily strike instead.

The last knot of the rope slipped loose and it fell from Sherlock's hands. 

Jim's wrists were red, but now they were free. His fingers flexed and he brought his arms down slowly, a slight smile betraying his satisfaction. His eyes flicked up to Sherlock immediately and they hung in the air like that, Sherlock still poised above him. Slowly, Jim lifted his hands to Sherlock's face. 

Sherlock stayed still. Jim had wanted his hands free to touch, and this was a touch he didn't mind. Better this than the other man pinning him down, or putting his hands where Sherlock didn't want them to be. Jim's hand settled on either side, warm to the touch, but he didn't shy away. The sensation was pleasant, even if the way Jim was looking at him was leaving Sherlock slightly uneasy. "...better?"

"Much." 

Jim's forefinger stroked down one side of Sherlock's cheek, catching his eye as it went. Jim watched with great satisfaction. He let his other hand move back, fingers sliding into the curls at Sherlock's temple, sending grey eyes darting the other way. Jim's smile spread. His fingers gripped lightly. 

"Now, can I get a kiss?"

Sherlock's eyes searched Jim's face, looking for signs of... something. He knew Jim could project or hide anything he wanted to, but he did it anyway, human impulses overriding cold knowledge. Jim's dark eyes gave away nothing but his pleasure. Sherlock didn't bother responding. He lowered himself slowly and let Jim's hands guide him forward until their lips touched. Warmth washed through him upon contact.

Jim moved slowly underneath him, as conscientiously as possible. His mouth parted, lips pressing softly against Sherlock's. Sherlock could feel him smiling still, even as his tongue edged between them, licking and teasing and just short of wandering into Sherlock's mouth. Jim was strangely warm and even _gentle_ when Sherlock knew so well he could be anything but. 

When they parted, Jim's smile softened, but he held a knowing gaze. This may not have been his norm, but he challenged Sherlock to say he wasn't being considerate. 

And that consideration was softening Sherlock. Jim could see it in his face and in his eyes. Sherlock was having difficulty keeping this Jim segmented from the other sides of his persona he'd seen, and from other memories. Kindness was making him more pliant in ways that force never would. The way he was looking back at Jim wasn't the same as the look he'd summoned that first night, but it was far more real. Those projected emotions had been for the synthetic memory he'd constructed in his head. Sherlock wasn't looking back, but at the man beneath him. 

He leaned down and kissed Jim again, this time out of his own desire.

Jim responded readily, lifting his head to meet Sherlock, pressing into the kiss more eagerly. When they brushed together, Sherlock having lowered for the kiss, he could feel Jim still hard. Jim made a muffled sound, but didn't break away and didn't try to find that friction again. His fingers clenched, however, betraying the desire still welling inside him. 

Sherlock could feel his own body twitch in interest. The ache from earlier hadn't gone away, just receded into the backdrop while he'd been concerned about Jim forcing him into things... or when he'd been exploring what Jim would let him do. The answer to that question seemed to be 'nearly anything'. Not only had Jim not balked at the idea of being the receptive partner, he'd specifically asked for such.

Sherlock transferred his weight so he could free one hand. It slid down Jim's bare side while he thought.

Jim moaned. Sherlock felt Jim's muscles tense wherever his hand trailed. When it stopped at his hip, Jim squirmed. His hands slid around to the back of Sherlock's neck, wandered over his shoulders. One daringly brushed along his clothed side. Jim moved it back up, however, as soon as he felt Sherlock hesitate. Jim's eyes never fully closed. Always he was watching Sherlock, recording. 

Sherlock was gunshy. He normally wasn't one to balk at new experiences, whether they were dangerous or not. He didn't care much about societal norms either. Part of him was wondering why he was having such a problem processing what he'd discovered about his own identity and moving forward with it. Another part whispered that whatever he gave, Jim would take and expect it regularly, and then expect more.

Jim watched his internal battle play out with silent interest. His hands fell to Sherlock's knees, sliding up only as far as mid thigh. 

Sherlock's fingers moved methodically, catching the buttons of his own shirt, and Jim watched as the line of his chest was bared bit by bit until the material hung from his shoulders. Jim's fingers tightened on his legs, itching to touch, but still he watched, restrained. 

Sherlock shrugged out of the garment and tossed it to the floor. He'd avoided looking at Jim, but he could still feel the man's gaze on him. Hungry, even if he'd not touched him yet. Sherlock felt exposed, but he wasn't really any more vulnerable than he'd been before. Clothing wasn't a shield here, and it was easily removed. 

Sherlock grasped Jim's wrists from where they had settled on his thighs and placed them on his shoulders instead, giving silent permission.

Jim's smile returned. His hands glided down Sherlock's chest, fingertips pressing, indenting the skin as they went, like he wanted to feel the muscle and bone beneath. They trailed lower and lower, brushing over a nipple, at which Sherlock stiffened, and Jim moved on, gliding with firm pressure down his abdomen, over his belly button, ghosting over his sharp hip bones, thumbs dipping into the line between them and the hem of Sherlock's trousers. 

Gooseflesh broke out on Sherlock’s skin and he bit his lower lip. He mentally wasn't adjusted yet, but his body certainly was. It remembered pleasurable touch and wanted that again. His own mind repeated Jim's request back to him. It wasn't that different to move from Jim's mouth to other areas, but psychologically it felt like there was a marked difference.

Instead, Sherlock's hands explored Jim in turn, following smooth planes of skin. Small scars were barely visible here and there. Sherlock wondered if there had been a time when Jim hadn't stayed safely in the background and had received these on some of his jobs, or if they were from an earlier time.

Jim's eyes finally drifted closed, enjoying the feel of both Sherlock's hands and his attention on him. His smile turned a little crooked when he felt the way Sherlock's hands lingered over the deep ones, or the ones that hadn't healed properly. Sherlock could tell many were from long ago, but he could not know how long Jim had been involved in his line of work before his death. The little smile that played over Jim's mouth was evidence enough that he would not readily offer up that information either. 

"...what are these from?" Sherlock's curiosity prompted him to speak. There was little context he could use to deduce the meaning behind the marks - nothing other than how they'd faded with age, or how the shape and depth spoke to specific kinds of wounds. Some were old enough that they suggested a very unhappy past when he was young - possibly an indication of just how Jim had built up a tolerance for pain. Sherlock traced his thumb over another.

Jim snorted a small laugh and peeked one eye open. Sherlock wasn't going to let it go. "Ohh, Sebastian. Some of them. On my orders." His lips quirked, watching Sherlock's brows knit. Sherlock's fingers, however, sought out the ones that fit this scenario and he was correct every time. "I told him I'd have him put me down one day, in the end. He loved it. And he hated it." Jim nodded to one beside Sherlock's thumb. "That one was from a boy in Queens. Didn't sound a thing like you, but he had the prettiest mop of curly black hair and ice blue eyes. Ten years old, and he didn't want to hurt me, but I asked him to anyway." 

"...why?" Jim's answers were only fueling more questions. Pieces of information about Jim's relationship with Sebastian slotted into empty gaps to start to form a picture, but the other... "You tried to find a boy that resembled me, then asked him to cut you?"

As much as he didn't like it, Sherlock felt a spike of... something. He was startled to find that it resembled jealousy.

Jim laughed. "I asked him to do a lot more than that, Sherlock." His smile grew fond, and his hand ran up Sherlock's chest again, palm warm, while the other moved up his side. "But sometimes…sometimes the scenario didn't fit unless you fought me." Jim was in the memory again, Sherlock could see him disappear enough to recall it. His smile changed, losing some of its warmth. "I knew that much about you, at least." 

Sherlock pondered this. It didn't make the other feeling recede, but that fit with what he'd seen from Jim before.

He turned a speculative eye on Jim. He was bothered by the fact that Jim had had things done to him by other facsimiles of himself. Bothered and uncomfortable with examining precisely why he felt... slighted. Possessive. Sherlock finally recognized the emotion; it was the same one that had filled him every time John had left on a date or wrote emails to a girlfriend, the one that had prompted him to seek out that person's weaknesses and sabotage the relationship.

Which meant he'd started to consider Jim as his. That couldn't be good.

"...what else did you have him do?"

"Let me have my wicked way with him. What did you think?" Jim was back to the present, a touch of amusement written into his features. "He looked so like you…knife digging into my heart while he let me spread his legs…" Jim's teeth flashed as Sherlock completed the mental image. 

Jim's head cocked, peering at Sherlock with critical eyes, but his smile didn't falter. "Are you...jealous?"

The flash in Sherlock's eyes responded for him. He wasn't comfortable with the idea of letting Jim do whatever he wanted with him, because he had a very good idea of what Jim wanted. The image of Jim fucking another boy as a placeholder for him, an ideal he could never obtain, made something in him tighten. It shouldn't have mattered, but it did, just as much as it had mattered when John had asserted that he wasn't gay and Sherlock had thought himself asexual, but flared into angry possessiveness every time John sought happiness elsewhere.

Jim's thumb dropped to rub over the spot on Sherlock's chest where the mark would be, feeling his strong heart beat beneath. "You _would_ be jealous of yourself. Of course you would. At the same time you attempt to deny you want me at all. But that's slipping, isn't it?" Jim's hand drew down again, one forefinger painting a line from sternum to navel. 

Sherlock's hand snatched up Jim's wrist. He wasn't going to get the luxury of examining everything right now. Jim was here, and impatient, and had already pushed Sherlock so far... and found another lever to use against him. Irritation joined the anger and jealousy pooling in his gut and Sherlock's eyes narrowed. His gaze drifted to the bruise still at Jim's shoulder, the teeth marks that hadn't quite healed yet. Marks that wouldn't persist, not like the ones Sebastian and however many boys had left on Jim.

Sherlock had started pushing Jim down against the bed before he was thinking. 

He caught a flash of wide black eyes before Jim landed. Sherlock couldn't make it hurt, it was only a bed, but he'd still managed to surprise Jim and his hands caught at Sherlock’s sides out of instinct alone, but Jim didn't fight immediately. His eyes darted, searching Sherlock, and if Sherlock wasn't mistaken there was a tinge of excitement in those black pits.

There was another side to Sherlock, one that he didn’t let show very often. One that fit a little more snugly into the neatly derogatory titles he’d been christened with in the past by the Met. It had come in handy before, when he'd needed information that a criminal wasn't going to willingly give him... or when he'd wanted to punish someone who'd offended him regardless of what the law had to say about it. He'd heard that one of the agents he'd repetitively tossed out a window had developed a permanent limp.

Sherlock dug down for that persona now. He let it envelope him.

Narrowed grey eyes looked down at Jim without attempting to hide the spark of jealousy anymore. He wanted Jim's memories gone. He wanted Jim to look at his scars and not smile in dreamy remembrance of boys he'd paid or kidnapped or whatever else he'd done to get his fixation satisfied. 

If Jim had wanted a motivation to override Sherlock's senses and shyness, he'd found it.

Jim's eyes flashed in return. His smile sharpened. " _There_ you are." His nails dug into Sherlock's back, eyes narrowing, daring him to make the first move. Jim seemed pleased to see Sherlock break free of his mental shell, but the offensive posture and intent in Sherlock now drew Jim to bare his own teeth. "And what do you want from me, Sherlock?"

"You're going to forget them." It hardly mattered now; Jim was fused to him whether Sherlock liked it or not, and incapable of going off and getting up to god-only-knew-what without taking over his body against Sherlock's will. That didn't soothe Sherlock’s feelings at all. His mind cast about for options and found, in recent memory, video clips and photos from his aborted attempt at research. His hand went to his trouser fastenings. "You're going to _overwrite_ those memories."

Sherlock saw Jim's eyes follow and narrow with interest. Jim's lip curled and Sherlock felt goosebumps form where he held the man’s upper arm. 

"Am I now?" Jim purred. His voice became something wholly unlike what Sherlock had heard only moments ago. It wasn't a voice at all. It was a hiss, filled with honey and venom and it sought to pull Sherlock in with exactly what he asked for.

Sherlock normally ignored such tease. Had Sherlock been in his normal state of mind, Jim's demeanor would have simply irritated him. As things were, Sherlock's anger flared. One of his hands caught Jim around the throat and squeezed in warning. "You are." Sherlock released him to kick his trousers off. He still didn't know what he was doing, but he was motivated enough to make educated guesses... and to not think of the consequences.

Jim's hands came up to fight, to grab at Sherlock's hair and they scrabbled for a moment until Sherlock had Jim caught, twisting in an arm lock and still pinned beneath him. 

Jim was breathing hard and his arousal had not diminished. He bared his teeth and pressed his hips up. "Look at that fire in you now," he hissed. "Although not quite what I expected, oho no, but I can't complain." He snapped his teeth in a motion somewhere between playful and provocative in spite of Sherlock's obvious aggression. 

"You'll behave, or I'll tie you up again," Sherlock snapped. Jim obviously wanted this, which soothed a bit of Sherlock's inner conflicts... but it also made him angry. This was _exactly_ what Jim had wanted earlier. The difference, now, was that Sherlock wanted it too, just in a different way. Sherlock felt around for the bottle he'd abandoned earlier to resume where he'd left off. One finger slipped back into Jim surprisingly easily. 

Jim lunged up, wrapping at arm around Sherlock's neck to get a little closer. His knees fell open, letting Sherlock see what his hand was doing. "Then I'll just untie myself." Jim drew near, teeth bared and so close to snapping at Sherlock's mouth, watching Sherlock snarl in preemptive defense. "How I've waited for this…" Jim hissed in what sounded like triumph. 

Sherlock glared. "Keep that up and you'll be waiting longer." He would, too, just to spite Jim for being too smug. Forcing his hand, pushing him past his comfort boundaries, trying to kill him, never stopping because the man was obsessed and his obsession had transferred with him into this invincible, deathless state. Sherlock slipped another finger into Jim, then a third. He pushed against the spot he remembered earlier with a bit more pressure than was necessary. He wanted to see Jim lose control.

Jim heaved a breath. His body shook. His eyes even rolled back a little. When his head snapped upright, his eyes were alight and a vicious grin was painted across his face. The grip on the back of Sherlock's neck tightened, like Jim was getting ready to hold on. He leaned up and whispered into Sherlock's ear, "Come on… _Make me lose my mind._ " 

Sherlock's eyes darkened. His thoughts drowned out but for a select few - to make Jim never think about the boys who'd scarred him again, and to crack Jim open so he could finally look inside. He wanted leverage. He wanted a sense of power after days of feeling powerless.

Sherlock's fingers withdrew, and in the space of a few heartbeats he'd positioned himself between Jim's thighs. He aligned them and, egged on by Jim's grip at the back of his neck, Sherlock pushed forward.

His jaw dropped and his breath caught.

All he could see was Jim, practically a mirror reflection of himself, mouth open, eyes wide. Jim's back arched under him, bringing their chests together, legs wrapped around Sherlock's hips before he could move. Jim's face flushed red. It had to hurt, but the shock of sensation on the man’s face was indecipherable between pain or pleasure or simply surprise. His dark eyes glanced down between them and Jim shivered.

It took a second for Sherlock to unfreeze, to risk movement. Pulling out slightly sent another rush of sensation through him, but thrusting forward was even more intense. Jim was warm around him and unbelievably tight, and-

Sherlock shivered. Some of the reality of what they were doing sank in. Jim was looking down where they were joined with an indescribable expression. Sherlock bent closer, trying to catch and hold Jim's gaze. His hips started moving. 

That drew a gasp from Jim. His arms tightened and his eyes snapped back up to Sherlock's face, mouth open, suddenly silent as Sherlock's thrusts rocked into him. His breaths hitched, like he should have been crying out, but couldn't make a sound. Sherlock thrust hard and Jim's head fell back, and just as suddenly as it had been lost, his voice was freed again. Jim cried out. 

That wouldn't do. Sherlock's hands buried themselves in Jim's hair and forced their eyes to meet again. He didn't want Jim to hide, either behind personas or by turning until Sherlock couldn't see anything. 

"Look. At. Me," he breathed. Jim had wanted this, but he was going to get it on Sherlock's terms. It was difficult to focus on anything but sensation, but Sherlock didn't want to miss this opportunity.

Jim continued gasping. His mouth wouldn't close. He let himself be locked in Sherlock's stare, body slackening under his sharp thrusts until Jim wound his arms around Sherlock's neck again, holding on. When Sherlock's hips snapped up, Jim's legs tightened. He lifted himself just so, making Sherlock slide even deeper. He could see on Jim's face the way pleasure began to spike through him at every thrust. Jim grabbed at Sherlock’s hair, forcing his head down, bringing their foreheads together.

They were both past talking. Sherlock's eyes had only lost a bit of their sharpness from earlier, wordlessly demanding that Jim forget the others. Pleasure was addling his senses and tempering the foolish rage he'd been sway to, only for him to be caught in a new net. Jim was wrapped around him and somehow, even when he was sliding into the man, Jim felt like he was reaching even deeper into Sherlock.

They'd never been this close. Sherlock could see the deep brown ridges of Jim's irises as well as he could feel every muscle inside the man's warm body as they moved. Every bit of Jim's humanity should have been delicate, should have made him seem vulnerable, but it didn't. Here in this dream Jim was flesh and blood and heat, but he was also invincible. When Jim's hands moved to splay over his back, they felt like fire. Warmth wrapped around both of them like a blanket, created not just in Jim's body, but emanating out of him through the very air, curling around Sherlock, drawing him into Jim in whatever manner he possibly could. 

If Jim was invulnerable, Sherlock was far less so. There was still an innocence to him that nothing in his life - not the drugs, or the dead bodies, or the despair, or anything else - had quite extinguished. It was the part of himself that he kept shielded, having learned early on that the world was only too happy to wound him. Jim had caught hold of him. 

Sherlock's thrusts grew more frantic, his features more dazed, but he couldn't look away. He didn't want to look away; he'd wanted to see into the abyss behind Jim's eyes, but it began to draw him in.

"Poor Sherlock," Jim's burning hand splayed over his cheek. "You'll never let me go now." Fine lines crinkled around Jim's eyes. Sherlock could _feel_ the elation in Jim, not just the way he raised himself with some effort to meet each thrust, quickening, racing headlong into a world of exquisite sensation, but almost literally. The pleasure was lighting him up inside. The world was shifting around them, losing its cohesiveness. Brick came apart. The darkness outside the window couldn't decide whether it wanted to be night or day. Paintings melted into pools of glass and color, and neither of them paid any attention. 

Sherlock couldn't keep his eyes open anymore. He was awash in sensation and the disorientation from the world dissolving around them. Darkness kept him from being completely overwhelmed. Everything was slick heat, Jim's hands on his face and back, legs wrapped around his waist, the body beneath him surprisingly soft even as it was angular. Masculine. Sherlock groaned, easily picturing what they must look like, and a part of himself was still in utter disbelief that he was doing this at all. Jim was meeting him thrust for thrust now. 

When Jim began to scrabble, teeth bared and arching up, Sherlock could tell something was amiss. With a snarl, Jim dragged Sherlock down so that he fell atop Jim, hips unable to stop seeking what frantic rhythm he could find. Jim's mouth dropped and he went suddenly silent, and Sherlock realized why. He could _feel_ Jim's length underneath him, smashed between their stomachs. One, two, three more jerky thrusts and there was suddenly slick wetness between them. Jim shuddered. A small sound escaped his throat, and still he hung on. 

Sherlock had only just realized what had happened when his own climax overtook him, brought on in no small part by the knowledge. His arms tightened around Jim's body as he came with a soft cry. His body shook and he felt Jim's fingers at his back, still pulling him closer, pulling him in, refusing to let go.  
Time stood still for Sherlock, frozen for what, in reality, must have only been several seconds. When finally collapsed on top of Jim, he could feel his heart pounding in his ribcage, echoed by Jim's beneath him.

Neither moved.

The heat around them faded to embers. Jim's body remained slightly above normal for this kind of activity, but it wasn't overwhelming anymore. A good thing, too, because Sherlock was still inside him. 

Distantly, he was aware that the room stopped melting. Everything hung in stillness, even the dust alighting in the air of Sherlock's remembered flat, visible in the soft ray of sunlight coming through the window. 

So it had decided to be morning after all.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright. I gave up and added the 'underage' tag. 
> 
> Warning in this chapter for sexual contact between two minors (sort of).

It didn’t take long for Sherlock to start panicking. There was nowhere to hide. Not from this, and not where Jim couldn't find him. He tucked his face against Jim's neck anyway, giving himself the flimsy psychological illusion of escape. He knew he couldn't stay there for long, but he didn't want to face everything just yet.

Almost as soon as he did it, he felt fingers glide through his hair. 

It was the only movement Jim made. How he could possibly be content to lie like this, sweaty and sticky and with Sherlock's body still inside his own, was unfathomable. Even if it was warm, and even if what they had made in Sherlock's little room resembled a cocoon. Perhaps that was what Jim wanted. Sherlock remembered the world outside, but Jim wanted, had always wanted, to escape from it. 

Alarmingly, a certain kind of catharsis swept through Sherlock. He fought back tears, but his whole body shivered from the stress of holding everything in. He knew that, with this, everything had changed again. His life had changed when Jim had resurfaced from whatever purgatory he'd been condemned to, but this exchange was going to color their interactions from now on. Even if he could delete this, Jim would still remember and demand it again.

Sherlock's mind replayed everything. He couldn't remember anyone else ever looking at him like that before - as an object of lust, yes, but not with whatever else he'd seen in Jim's face.

The fingers didn't stop, even when Sherlock shook. Jim didn't show any sign he noticed Sherlock's distress other than a second hand coming up to smooth over his back. He held Sherlock that way, as welcoming as any seducer. It seemed he wasn’t going to mock Sherlock for his tumultuous emotions. Jim was probably _pleased_ with Sherlock’s reaction and know that he had finally caught something he'd coveted so much in his web.

It took Sherlock several minutes to calm down. 

His thoughts were racing, and the one thing that rose to the surface loud and clear was that Jim didn't shoulder all the blame. He'd manipulated Sherlock masterfully, but the shock on Jim's face had said he'd not expected it to really work... and it wouldn't have, if he'd not reeled Sherlock's jealous streak into the light. The fact that his jealousy had fixated on Jim at all said something about himself that Sherlock didn't want to look at or acknowledge, but he was going to have to. It wasn't as if he could run from it all and pretend this never happened; not if he was planning to keep on living.

"...I wasn't expecting this." Sherlock's voice came out muffled.

He felt Jim’s head turn to look down at him. Sherlock had brushed his neck when he spoke and Jim could feel his breathing, feel his heartbeat. The man wouldn’t need any more than that. His fingers scratched lightly into Sherlock's scalp. Jim was smiling. Even if Sherlock couldn't see it, he knew. It came through in his voice. "Of course you weren't. Even I wasn't."

Sherlock couldn't ask Jim what it all meant. It would have sounded childish, and Jim wouldn't give him an unbiased answer. Part of him was intensely grateful that Jim wasn't pushing him away, wasn't teasing, wasn't rejecting him in any way. That gratitude was enough that he could ignore the way he could feel the pull of Jim's smile and the satisfaction in his tone. "...what happens now?"

"Now you stop regretting what we've done." 

Sherlock felt Jim turn, felt a kiss placed to his hair. It was so strange. When Sherlock showed vulnerability, Jim was gentle. The way their encounter tonight had started, it had been obvious Jim was being so accommodating to put Sherlock at ease, but he didn't need to now. He held Sherlock and stroked his hair like he'd done in the cabin memory. Completely unlike the Jim who snarled and bristled at him when they fought. 

Jim's kindness was disorienting. 

Sherlock understood now how gaslit individuals might have felt. He'd never before found someone who was able to fool his observation and deduction skills. Jim seemed to be genuine, but Sherlock wasn't completely _certain_ , not even with a lack of discernable motive. 

Stranger yet, even though he wasn't certain it was real, Sherlock still... wanted it. Affection felt like cool water on a parched throat. 

It hit Sherlock a moment later that, perhaps, Jim wanted reciprocal touches. His hand began to move shyly over Jim's shoulder, then paused. He'd remembered the odd look on Jim's face. Sherlock knew the human body could accommodate a lot, but also easily tear. He had no idea what that would mean here. "You aren't hurt, are you?"

Jim snorted softly. "No, Sherlock. We're in a dream." Except that he _could_ hurt Jim here. Though they had yet to discover how far that could be taken. Jim was either lying or he simply didn't care that Sherlock had been so rough. After his initial shock, he'd seemed to enjoy it well enough. More than well enough. "How thoughtful of you to ask." The touch of amusement was back in Jim's voice, slightly jarring in the moment. "But you'll have to do a lot more than that to damage me." 

More than that, or the few shallow knife scratches. That only reminded Sherlock of the scars that had prompted all of this. His grip on Jim tightened. "I _had_ told you I didn't want to hurt you. Even when you did your best to hurt me. I could have choked you out and ended things early on, and I didn't."

"You're a fool, then," Jim whispered, undeterred. Then he got right up against Sherlock’s ear and his voice turned cold. "But I wouldn't hold out hope on killing me again, if I were you." Gentle as his other touches remained, Jim slipped so easily into Moriarty, fracturing the picture of ease he presented. The only conceivable way he did it so well was that he was not acting, that he simply felt both contradictory emotions at once. Care, affection, and cold aggression. 

"You're misunderstanding." Sherlock couldn’t help but tense in response, but didn't try to move away. "It wasn't that I didn't kill you because I changed my mind, or decided my curiosity outweighed my anger. I didn't do it because I _couldn't_. You don't seem at all perturbed with the idea of destroying me, but I don't have that same lack of barriers. I tried, and I couldn't make myself destroy you."

The hands on the back of Sherlock's head paused and Jim shifted to get a better look at him. Sherlock could see out of the corner of his eye Jim's brows draw together and an expression of puzzlement cross his face. "What do you mean you couldn't?" Jim's head tilted and a finger drew down Sherlock's temple, just at the line of his hair. 

"I'm not certain you have the same limitations, but the idea was like..." Sherlock searched for words. His gaze turned sideways in embarrassment. "...burning the Louvre with everything in it. I'd already watched that happen once and tried to save a few scraps in my memories. As awful as you'd been, as much as I wanted a way out, I couldn't make myself kill you. I wanted you out of me and to stop hurting me, not dead for a second time."

"Oh _Sherlock_ ," Jim whispered and Sherlock could just hear the delight in his voice. And feel it in the way Jim's arms tightened around him. And there he went again, with his little melodrama. But he let it go. His voice turned serious. "Did you even realize you missed me before then?" 

"In certain ways." Sherlock hadn't had time to react on the rooftop, and directly afterwards he'd had to start moving and getting undercover. It had been several days before he'd had to settle down to the first of a few long waiting periods, waiting for baited hooks to snag their target prizes. Long, silent solitude had been a torment. "...I was angry. Both at what you did, or tried to do, and at the waste of it all. I needed to bring your network down to keep my people safe, but it felt like picking your corpse apart. It was disturbing on some levels, and a reminder that I wasn't likely to ever find another person like myself ever again, apart from my brother."

Jim's fingers dipped back into Sherlock's hair and the man's head rested against his own. Jim's chest rose and let out a long breath of air. “You are life now, Sherlock. You are my life, what little I have left of it. And you can't escape."

Sherlock knew the latter was true. Finding an exorcism technique that wasn't a complete fabrication had been a long shot, and even if he did find one, he suspected the entanglement had progressed too far. He didn't know what he would do if such an opportunity was presented to him. It might very well be that he'd find he wouldn't have the heart to cast Jim out, either. "Why do you still want to cease existing? You finally caught what you were chasing all these years," Sherlock intoned bitterly.

"’To die would be an awfully big adventure’," Jim quoted with a faraway look. "I’ll admit you are a definite lure toward the land of the living. On which I have no ground to stand any longer. Should this be all the reality left to me? To build palaces in your head? They would be exquisite, but you know that would never be enough for me." 

Sherlock knew what Jim was asking, between so many words. And it _was_ asking, in a way - he wasn't outright demanding or violently forcing his desired outcome. 

"Don't try to use guilt or pity to manipulate me. I'll end up resenting you for all the strings you've pulled." That, Sherlock knew well enough from experience. What Jim wanted, though... "I have a life. Detective work is what I do, what keeps me sane. I find it hard to imagine that you'd be content to stay within the lines and not destroy what I've built."

Jim hissed out a sigh. "I have no desire to help you further your work with the law. Whether it is intended _for_ the law or not. What I propose is…something of a time-share. Jekyll and Hyde. You should remember that before you came along, I never was." Jim's fingers curled just a little tighter.

Sherlock grimaced and tried to pull backwards, but Jim wasn't letting him go anywhere. "That's not going to work. Even if Lestrade doesn't eventually start to suspect, Mycroft won't stand for it. He'll let me bend and break laws when it doesn't cause too many ripples, and whatever you would plan would certainly create a tidal wave."

"And you always do what big brother asks." Jim didn't sound happy. "You can't get rid of me, and you can't stifle me either. I suggest you allow me some indulgences or I will grow very, _very_ bored. You will not like me when I'm bored." Sherlock had seen Jim angry, both alive and dead, and that had been unpleasant enough. 

"We'll work something out," Sherlock sighed. If they were stuck in this, they'd have to. He wasn't about to let Jim tear what remained of his life into pieces, but Jim would have to have an outlet. He wouldn't limit himself to shooting at walls, feeding chemical substances to passersby, and experimenting on corpses. Sherlock sighed again. "Today wasn't that bad. We'll start slow. Although I'm going to have to insist that you don't ruin things with my close acquaintances, or John and Mary."

Jim's eyes rolled. "I have even less desire to interact with your pet couple than I do with your pet detective. You keep them out of my way." One of his fingers looped into a curl of Sherlock's hair and he pulled at it thoughtfully. “Speaking of 'close acquaintances', you'll have to do something about Moran soon. And you _will_ need my help."

That was a very good point. Sherlock grimaced at the way Jim was tugging on his hair, but Jim wasn't a threat he needed to worry about at the moment. He had time to figure out how to bargain with the madman. Sebastian, however, was a loose cannon. "You know him well. If he's still in the area, how long before he makes another attempt?" Sherlock's main worry was that the gunman, having failed to kill him twice, would start killing the people he cared about.

"Not long," Jim mused. "He'll have holed up and restocked his supplies by now. All he has to do is wait for you to step back out into the world unguarded. And he will be watching in the meantime." Jim sounded far too satisfied with his prediction, possibly with Sebastian, possibly with Sherlock being forced into action. Probably both. "But like I said, I could be persuaded to find him for you and…change his mind."

Having a hole put through his skull from a distance wasn't something Sherlock wanted to experience. Neither did he want Sebastian to get creative and pick up where Jim had left off, gunning down people until Sherlock was grieving and careless. "...persuaded. It's not enough for you to stop him from killing me, to preserve what you have? You've already gotten more than you expected."

"It would be enough for me," Jim turned his head to whisper in Sherlock's ear. "But unless he forces my hand sooner, I see no reason to kill him. And there is...really only one other way for me to convince him not to kill you." 

Jim needed the use of his body, his voice at the very least. A lot more at the very most. Already he was putting Sherlock in a very difficult place with his pursuit of a 'time-share situation'. When Sherlock had told him he'd be unwilling to let Jim have free reign of his body in order to...take certain liberties with convincing Sebastian, Jim had been put out. Now he was right back at it. 

Sherlock's fragile, tense afterglow was burned away. He turned his head to glare at Jim. "I think you're lying. I think you're being opportunistic. There have to be things only the two of you know, if you worked _so_ closely together for so long. I'll let you have control to convince him with body language, and with words, but you are _not_ using my body to try to sway him with a repeat of what he used to do to you." Sherlock could easily imagine Jim trying to use the situation just to push him further. Every little bit that he'd given thus far, Jim had taken greedily and then stretched out his hands for more.

Jim smiled back with a cruel edge, responding to Sherlock's bristling in kind. "Alright. But after I've convinced him and handed your body back to you, he won't leave it at that. Even if he has to force you to let me out again." Jim's brows rose with sincerity. "Think about it Sherlock, how long I've been away, how I _am_ in fact dead. Do you think he's going to sit down and smile and say it's good to have you back, so sorry about trying to kill you'? You'll be begging me to take over again." 

"You killed _yourself_. It's not my fault you're dead, and he won't want to damage me because then he'd be losing you again. His own fault, this time." That was a bluff, and Sherlock knew it; there were ways to hurt a person without leaving a mark. He simply didn't think the gunman would want to risk injuring the body his former lover was tied to. Sherlock's jaw clenched into a stubborn line. "You don't get to use this as another opportunity to break me."

"You misunderstand. Sebastian won't want to _hurt_ me, or you. Well, maybe a little. But mostly, he's going to want something much more pleasant and he will not care whether you want it or not." Jim levelled his gaze with Sherlock, arms still wrapped around him. Sherlock had twisted significantly, but not enough to dislodge Jim and ruin their closeness. That kind of tension within that small of a distance only doubled the intensity. 

Sherlock tried to shove Jim away, but he didn't get anywhere. For all that he was a much smaller man, Jim was remarkably strong. His nails dug into Sherlock's back enough to break the skin. 

"So what you're trying to convince me is that, unless I want to die, my choices are to kill him, or let him rape me once you're convinced him not to kill me. With or without me in control, but experiencing it anyway. You're doing a wonderful job of convincing me to kill a man."

"I would stop you. And I _will_ stop him if it comes to that, but it won't be easy," Jim hissed. "And it especially won't be easy if I'm fighting you in the meantime. You will need to work _with_ me." That meant Sherlock had to trust Jim. Trust Jim not to let this Sebastian Moran either kill him, which Jim had attempted to do several times now, or rape him, which Jim did not seem wholeheartedly opposed to either. Especially when he got a certain amount of intimacy and control out of it in return. 

Sherlock laughed bitterly. "Right. Trust you to stop him. Because you've been so _very_ trustworthy. Oh, and all I have to do is _not panic_ and try to defend myself. Just let you have control, when all you've wanted, since deciding not to _murder_ me, was that you wanted to fuck me. Making your second in command take the honor would be close enough for you. You'd have a front row seat, both to the act and my reaction." Sherlock pushed at Jim again. 

To his shame, Sherlock felt his throat and chest tightening up. Part of his mind distantly informed him that it was likely a panic attack, brought on by unusual stress levels.

He'd nearly gotten Jim off him, too. But he couldn't fight with so little air, and Jim was back in a heartbeat, wrapping Sherlock in his arms, holding him in place with everything Jim had. 

The air cooled. Some of the room lost its stability. "Don't try to move." Sherlock could hear Jim's voice, clear and steady in the midst of his stress, taking control of the situation. "I won't hurt you. I won't do anything. See? Just let go. Your body will calm." He was trying to be soothing. He was trying to be the rock Sherlock could cling to, in spite of _everything_ he'd just threatened.

The room flickered. The bed didn’t move, but beyond that everything dissolved and reformed. They were no longer in the flat. Summer sunlight filtered through the windows onto a scuffed wood floor littered with toys and discarded curiosities. A few books and a child's version of a chemistry set cluttered the top of a short dresser. An entomology poster was hung on the wall, and a short distance away some shelves boasted actual specimens, frozen on pins inside their plastic cases. Sherlock tried to breathe but the body draped atop him was too heavy.

It spurred Jim to move, pitching himself to Sherlock's side, arms still tightly around him. Jim's dark eyes darted about the room until understanding took hold. Then he glanced back down at Sherlock’s new form with a hint of a smile on his lips. "Yes, you're safe now." Jim's voice was so soft. So soft it could almost be believed. If Jim kept any control over their surroundings, he let it go to Sherlock, and the room solidified with warmth, with the old wood smell of fine furniture and the atmosphere of its inhabitants. The very air changed in quality, back to something tangible, lived in, rather than a hollow memory.

The vice gripping Sherlock's lungs vanished. He caught his breath and held tightly against Jim's chest. It took several moments for it to sink in that Jim was curled _around_ him, and suddenly a great deal taller. Jim's voice might have been softer, but Sherlock felt more vulnerable than when they'd been discussing his gunman. Sebastian might be a problem for his waking self no matter what he did or what he looked like, but Sherlock knew now that Jim was especially partial to him like _this_. "...no I'm not."

"Yes, you are," Jim reaffirmed, reaching out and touching Sherlock's soft hair. It was finer like this, not quite as coarse, but set around such a small face, it looked twice as unruly. Sherlock was even younger than he'd been in the cabin. Jim would have estimated about eight, and he was usually very good at estimating. Sherlock's eyes were wide and almost blue they were so clear. "You could not possibly be more safe than you are right now." Jim's smile curled at one corner. He drew a finger down Sherlock's nose until it reached the tip, a light and strangely playful gesture. 

Sherlock looked back at Jim with a cautious, uncertain light in his eyes. Being back in his old bedroom with this man was almost like a childhood nightmare, with the monster under his bed crawling up and deciding he looked good enough to eat. He shifted in discomfort but Jim wasn't letting him go, even if his grip was gentler than what it had been minutes ago. Sherlock closed his eyes and shivered. "I'm not sure we have the same ideas of 'safe'."

"Perhaps not," Jim admitted, but he burrowed down against Sherlock anyway, pulling the boy up tight against his chest. "But in more ways than not, you are." Jim's warm breath tickled his ear. This motion was becoming increasingly familiar. Every time Sherlock wound up in one of his childhood memories, Jim liked to hold him this way, body and arms wrapped around him, face so close, watching Sherlock's every expression. 

Minutes passed in silence. Sherlock was keenly aware of every inch of warm skin pressed against him, but Jim didn't make any move other than to stroke fingers through his hair. Sherlock gradually began to relax.  
"Do you even know how far you're pushing me?" he finally asked. "I've had to restructure and question large parts of myself and you're not giving me any time. For anything. I won't be able to handle the added stress if you can't keep your gunman away from me."

Jim's head lifted from the pillow, regarding Sherlock with calm consideration. Sherlock's clear eyes watched him uncertainly, but Jim didn't try anything. Except to trail his fingers down Sherlock's small chest. 

"What have you been forced to reconstruct because of me?" Jim asked softly. He had to have known of Sherlock's inner struggles. His body was so very responsive to Jim's touches. Jim had also heard bits of Sherlock's battle with his own thoughts, but perhaps Jim had not understood the weight of Sherlock's revelations.

Sherlock was silent for a few moments. The tension that ran through his small body spoke to some manner of internal debate; he wasn't certain he wanted to answer Jim's question. Jim kept watching quietly, waiting.

"...I don't know how reality works anymore," Sherlock finally admitted. "You shouldn't be real, but I've been operating under the theory that you are because... I couldn't explain it, otherwise. And this is persistent, so it has to be real, but I can't explain it. And-" The boy bit his lip and his gaze left Jim's face, shifting down until he was staring at the man's chest. "...I wasn't supposed to like people. I decided I didn't want anything to do with anyone, early on, and so it just... stopped. People would flirt with me and I felt nothing. I would look at people who were physically attractive by a number of measurements, and I felt nothing. I never thought I'd have to face some activities or interactions because they would never happen."

"It appears I've bent the very fabric of the universe to outwit you, Sherlock." Jim smiled. His voice was strangely gentle. "But I'd have nothing less. Only the very best of you." Which meant everything. If Jim wanted Sherlock, he would be driven to take all of him. Every last bit, which he'd already begun to do, driving Sherlock beyond his boundaries, delving into his very thoughts and memories. 

Jim was like fire, consuming everything in his path. And how bright he burned. How he could make Sherlock burn, too, with pleasure and shame and anything else Jim wanted him to feel. 

Sherlock had plenty of shame at the moment. His cheeks reddened as he thought back on everything that had happened, including what he'd done to Jim. "I grew used to thinking about such things as disgusting." Nothing else he'd done had made him feel like hiding. He wasn't embarrassed to have a drug-haunted past or to be familiar with the trials of homelessness. He wasn't shamed to have dropped out of college, or to make his living without a great amount of monetary security. He did care about being called a freak, but he'd wrapped himself in all of the accusations like armor and refused to give up a life of corpses and enigmas and excitement.

Sherlock didn't know how to feel about what they'd done together, and the sure knowledge that Jim wanted to do more to him made him shiver.

Jim's smile smoothed into something else, something that held a certain amount of consideration. And a hint of calculation. Sherlock could see it; the gears turning behind Jim's dark eyes was a familiar expression. It was the kind of look Sherlock himself often wore.

"It isn't," Jim said finally. As though that could change Sherlock's mind. As though Jim's opinion, his reassurance, stated as fact, could outweigh Sherlock's years of forming this opinion. "But I may be willing to stop Moran's advances, when the time comes. If you give me at least a little leeway to do so." 

"'May' isn't very reassuring. I can barely handle this with you, because-" Because Jim was somewhat known to him, and attractive. Sherlock had begun to admit as much now, reassessing the ways he'd previously thought of the man before all this had started. He couldn't imagine experiencing the same with a stranger, even if he was in the back of his own mind watching and feeling it happen while Jim was in control. Sherlock shook his head with a violent jerk. Jim's fingers caught on his hair. "I don't want him touching me."

Jim wouldn't let him turn away, and when Sherlock's eyes snapped back in challenge, Jim met his gaze. Sherlock could tell he was still a little annoyed at Sherlock's abrupt attempt to pull back, but he did not resort to anger as he'd done before. "Then let me do the touching. Not for long. Just enough to subdue him, and then I _will_ stop him." Jim paused. Sherlock stared back warily. "You have my word."

Sherlock nodded slowly. Jim was tricky, and could change his mind and his attitude at a moment's notice, but he had a tendency to do what he'd promised to do, if not necessarily in the way his words had been understood. "...alright. I can't promise I won't panic, but I'll try not to." Trying to fight back on instinct would just make it all the more difficult for Jim to retain smooth control.

"Good," Jim smiled slowly. "Then we'll catch ourselves a tiger, maybe even by the tail." He seemed amused enough at the old rhyme even though Sherlock had no frame of reference for it. Other than his current age. Jim stroked his fingers through Sherlock’s hair again. "So soft..," Jim mused. "Did you have any idea how beautiful you were to me? Shining so bright. A beacon of intelligence...I thought you would understand so much." Jim's eyes fell as he became thoughtful, and then he bent his head. He didn't have to go very far to kiss Sherlock's lips. 

Sherlock felt a rush of warmth go through him when they made contact. Jim was far different when he was like this. Odd as it seemed, Sherlock was beginning to realize that he _did_ feel more secure like this. Jim was softer, and more importantly, he held back. He was responsive every time Sherlock signaled refusal or unease, and he was pausing to listen to Sherlock's words. His lips parted and Jim didn't waste time in taking advantage.

Sherlock wondered what Jim had looked like, back when Jim had first spotted him. Sherlock had never seen the other boy, just his handiwork. Had never even known the name of who was responsible.

When they parted, Jim licked his lips. Like he couldn't get enough of Sherlock. His thumb continued it's stroking against Sherlock's temple and Jim's hand cupped his cheek. Jim did not have large hands, until now. He stretched himself out on the bed, curling Sherlock's blankets around them and never letting the boy go all the while. "I could spend ages in this dream of yours," Jim admitted fondly. Perhaps not forever, Jim was a restless soul, but for him 'ages' would suffice. 

And that was flattering - a mind that got so quickly bored of everything else, even the entire world, was content to stay for an indeterminate amount of time just being with Sherlock. From anyone else, that might have sounded like an expression of love, or the words of some sort of guardian angel, but Sherlock knew Jim didn't have idle, platonic days in mind. "I would hope so," Sherlock whispered. "You can't leave without killing me, I don't think. I don't really want you to get bored too quickly."

Jim glanced to him with an indulgent smile before his dark eyes turned to the books on Sherlock's shelves. "Every piece of this room went in to the making of Sherlock Holmes,” Jim mused. “How could I not find that intriguing? I could dust off your memories, long since forgotten, and watch you play in here for hours. One of the very first things I did was watch you investigate Carl Powers." Jim's smile widened, and even when he tried to temper it, it made him look a little devilish. "How I enjoyed those memories."

Sherlock's cheeks colored. He wasn't fond of Jim poking around inside his head by himself, as it was more than a little voyeuristic and invasive, but he was less bothered than he'd been at the start of this. If they were stuck together, they were going to learn everything about one another anyway. Or at least Jim would. "...are we able to do the same with you? Watch your memories? It's not quite fair. I never saw you back then, and you have access to everything in here."

Jim's head cocked thoughtfully. An idea took hold of him. "Perhaps..." He held his hand up to Sherlock's temple again, stroking his hair back, feeling the light pulse underneath. Sherlock could feel it in his own head as Jim looked into his eyes. "If I can bring you under in the waking world..." Jim moved in closer, pressing himself to Sherlock, dipping his head, pressing his brow to Sherlock's. He was all focus. This had to be different than Jim bringing him under while inside his head. They were under the illusion while in Sherlock's mind together that they were more separate than they were while Sherlock was awake. Jim seemed to be trying to counter that idea through focus alone, illustrated by removing any physical space between them. 

Finally, Sherlock felt a pull inside his chest, not unfamiliar now that Jim had brought him under several times. This time, however, Jim seemed to be pulling Sherlock toward him. 

Sherlock's eyes rolled up. He felt like he was falling again, only instead of toppling over in a faint, this was hooked somewhere deeper. The bedroom around them was swallowed up in shadow. Sherlock tried to ground himself and find something to hold onto, but Jim was the only solid thing he found. Sherlock clung to him as they dropped. 

He felt Jim's arms twine around him, tighter than ever. His face turned into Jim's collar, and suddenly they stopped. The world’s freefall came to a halt. There was solid ground beneath their feet, and Sherlock was wearing shoes. In fact, both he and Jim were clothed again, Jim in a worn pair of jeans and a tshirt, Sherlock in a heavy coat, buttoned up tightly to keep out the cold. The way his mother used to dress him. Jim lifted him off his toes, trainers, in fact, and it was very odd to see Jim Moriarty in trainers, until Sherlock stood solidly on the ground. They stood on the chilly streets of London, in a very familiar place - just outside the pool where Carl Powers had drowned. 

Sherlock's breath steamed in the air in front of him. When he looked up, Jim didn't seem to be bothered by the cold. He looked perfectly comfortable in clothing that reminded Sherlock of the two times they'd met more casually - once as an IT technician, and later as a small-time actor. Sherlock stared a bit while the rest of him caught up.

He had a very good idea of why Jim had brought him here. Of all the memories Jim could have picked, it made sense for him to select this one. It was a moment Jim obviously treasured, and one that had started them on their collision course so many years later. Sherlock felt his pulse pick up. His gaze turned toward the building and his hand blindly sought out Jim's before leading the way toward the doors.

Jim let himself be pulled along. Sherlock remembered this path. It was the same one he'd taken into the building in the first place. Through the recreation centre's lobby, past the gymnasiums, finding the same corridors blocked off by notices from the Met. 

People moved around them as they went, unseen, through a small throng of investigators. They were packing up for the night, leaving with what little they'd found for the lab, and Sherlock knew as well as Jim that his younger self was just waiting around one of these corridors for them to finish. 

Once the last steps of the Met had faded into the distance and the main lights went out, leaving only the eerie blue glow of the secondary lamps, kept on for the janitors, they heard a second sound of footsteps. Softer ones. The sound preceded the shine of a torch and a small shape that appeared around the corner of the hall, unmistakable by his curly hair. 

The Met would return in the morning, but in the meantime, young Sherlock could move as he pleased and it was clear he was heading for the pool. 

Sherlock watched himself slip through the doors to the pool. His past self would be intent on studying the whole crime scene, including the locker room. He remembered exactly what he'd brought in his pockets that day - a makeshift investigation kit scrounged together from pieces of his chemistry set, his entomology magnifying glass, and whatever else he'd found around the house. 

Just as the real Sherlock was about to pull forward, Jim held him back by the hand. When the boy with the torch reached the end of the hall, carefully checking the double doors for an alarm, another shape peered around the corner of the lobby. 

Sherlock had never seen was the other boy. He had never expected that the culprit would return, would be _right there_. 

The second boy crept closer now that the small investigator had disappeared through the doors, and Sherlock watched his features gradually resolve in the dim light. Jim's younger self was eerily recognizable. His hairline had changed, the shape of his face had grown sharper and gained a few lines around his eyes, and he'd grown taller and filled out from the willowy, boyish frame Sherlock saw, but his eyes were the same. The same darkness, the same glint of drive behind them, just with less experience... 

Not yet world-weary.

A strange mixture of curiosity and anger flickered over the young Jim's face, unhidden when he thought no one was watching. He was even more expressive than his adult self. The chill of the outdoors followed him as he went, obviously having just come out of the cold. He'd been watching the Met just like Sherlock had been, then, but hadn't dared come inside until they had gone. The interesting thing was that he wore no coat, not even a light jacket, yet did not appear to be cold. He wore, in fact, the same clothes the Jim at Sherlock's side wore now. His focus was absolute, and perhaps that was how he ignored it as he slipped down the hall after Sherlock's counterpart. This Jim moved quickly, darting like a little snake through the shadows.

The elder Jim let them follow as the boy who'd caused Carl's accident peered through the glass window at the young detective, tentatively walking around the pool, noting the number of exits, ventilation, drainage, everything he could within the space. As they watched one boy watch the other, Sherlock could see the young Jim's anger slowly melt away into uninhibited fascination. This Jim was seeing Sherlock in his element. This Jim was seeing Sherlock _perform_ when he thought no one else was watching. 

The boy's fascination was mirrored. Sherlock dropped Jim's hand in order to get closer. He wanted to see this - Jim without so many shields, watching a Sherlock who thought he was alone while he, too, thought he was unobserved. Seeing into Jim's head had been something he'd wanted ever since they'd officially met, and while he couldn't read the boy's thoughts or deduce his past, this was a potent offering.

Jim was _offering_ him this. Because he had asked. He watched the younger Moriarty light up, dark eyes moving back and forth as the boy watched younger Sherlock investigating. 

"...what were you thinking?" Sherlock whispered.

"At first I thought how troublesome you were. I couldn't believe how such a brat had thought there was anything suspicious about Carl's death, or that you would have the gall to come here and investigate." Jim came up by his side. "I thought the boy who had tried to engage the Met was nothing more than a know-it-all who wanted his own fame. I noticed your efforts while I watched their investigation. ....But here, here I saw you work, and everything changed." And so did Jim's voice. It grew softer, higher, and when Sherlock glanced back at him, he saw the same boy who crouched in front of him, watching Sherlock step around the pool.

The Sherlock from this memory must have finally entered the locker room and disappeared from sight. The Jim who'd been watching stepped back from the window and moved away, leaving the two of them alone. Sherlock turned and watched him go, his gaze sliding from the retreating shadow to its twin who still stood before him. 

"Why did you wait so long?" Sherlock knew without a doubt that, had Jim found him in his early years, his life path would have been drastically different. He'd been even more sensitive as a child, and easily swayed in some things, if not others. His fascination with the morbid, and the flattery of someone paying attention to him in an appreciative way would have drawn his younger self in.

"Your brother. Your family." Jim's dark eyes stared through him, like he were the Jim from back then addressing Sherlock just the same. "I followed you. I wasn't even sure I wanted a playmate at first," the young boy's eyes closed and Jim shook his head with a smile, "but I couldn't stop thinking about you. I found out who you were and then I found them. And they swallowed you up. Your brother was well on his way to becoming an adult and he never took his eyes off you. Your parents shut you away...." Jim reached out with a hand as small as Sherlock's and twined fingers through Sherlock’s hair in a very adult gesture. "How I wished I'd given in to the temptation to steal you away, but I didn't. Safety above all. And then you went off to school and became boring. I thought only of the boy who'd once nearly solved my murder after that. Until lo and behold, a certain consulting detective appeared on my radar." 

Hurt flickered across Sherlock's face. Pointless as it was to dwell on what might have been or speculate about how things might have turned out for the best, Sherlock felt cheated. "I thought I was alone. Except for Mycroft. Who thought I was stupid." His brother had constantly made him feel inept and, later on, stifled. The other people around him were even more alienating - irritating, daft, vapid, cruel, eager to take what advantages they could and push him to the outskirts when they saw no further use for him. Not a person, but a freak and a tool. Even later in life this had persisted. 

"Your brother had seven years on you and had learned to repress nearly anything that made him interesting," Jim countered. "Of course he thought you were stupid. While you were processing emotions, he skipped over them entirely and had already moved on. Now I know why," Jim added with a hint of a playful smile, "but you weren't alone. Or you shouldn't have been." Jim's other arm came up and his hands linked behind Sherlock's neck. At this age he was just a little shorter than Sherlock, and Jim didn't look like much of a threat. He was one of those boys who was perpetually small. "I was alone, too." 

"But you were really alone, weren't you?" Sherlock's parents hadn't understood him or Mycroft at all, had even been frightened of them, but they'd tried. They'd cared. They'd been there and done the best they could. Sherlock had never had to worry about getting an education, or food and a roof over his head, or that their lack of understanding might lead to abuse. Jim... seemed disconnected even from that sort of mundane childhood.

Sherlock's arms slowly wrapped around Jim. Jim was still smiling, but Sherlock was stuck on what a waste it had all been. All that time, all that suffering, all the dead ends. He would have given the world just to know he wasn't alone when he was younger. 

Jim's continued smile was the only possible affirmation of Sherlock's question. "You were my only regret," he said with his familiar lilt, so unusual in a child's voice, and a note of nostalgia. "And how it pains me now to know I could have lured you away..." Jim's eyes dropped, fluidly landing on Sherlock's lips, like he was both remembering a time and caught within a particular desire. "Maybe it's not too late."

Without looking for confirmation, Jim leaned in, brushing his mouth against Sherlock's, pulling Sherlock back against him. 

Sherlock had spent much of his life mimicking his brother, putting on an air of cold analytical detachment or pushing others away with hurtful comments or declarations of sociopathy. He'd never been able to successfully numb what he felt; Sherlock was an intensely emotional creature. Regret held him in place. 

A shock ran through him when he noticed how much softer Jim was like this. When he pulled back to stare at Jim with wide eyes, another thought registered.

This was becoming a new normal. Being kissed was no longer a strange new thing. Sherlock blinked, processing this and the fact that... he liked it. He knew full well that other factors were in play, including his old fascination with Jim and the psychological strain of being forced into their odd relationship, but what he felt was beginning to overrule his anger and his reservations.

Jim must have seen something in the way Sherlock regarded him, because the other boy's expression lightened. His lips quirked and, playfully, he darted in again. This time it was quicker, with a nip of sharp little teeth at the end. Just to get Sherlock to open his mouth. Then a swipe of tongue, and suddenly a hungry little Jim was pushing at him until his back hit the wall, smirking against him, and very, very leisurely exploring the ways he could kiss Sherlock. "I'd thought about this, too," Jim whispered. "Even back then."

Sherlock let out a shaky breath, until even that was devoured. Jim was still shorter than him, if not by much, but his dominant personality had always made him feel overwhelming. Backed up against the wall, petal soft lips and sharp teeth teasing and kissing and trying to pry him open, Sherlock felt like Jim was a storm. He'd lingered ominously on the horizon for years, hungry and patient, failed to sweep him up once, and now was back again to tear him open and pour into the fissure he made. Sherlock felt a tongue lap into him mouth and let his stance widen as Jim pushed between his legs. Sherlock's fingers grasped at Jim's thin t-shirt, pulling, and Sherlock didn't know if he wanted to pull Jim away or simply pull off that thin barrier hiding warm skin underneath.

He could feel it when Jim moaned, perhaps sensing the conflict within Sherlock because Jim redoubled his efforts, slowing down, dragging his teeth and tongue along Sherlock's lips like he was offering honey instead. He ground his hip against Sherlock's groin in one smooth, agonizing circle. And then did it again. And again, until even Jim's eyes closed. "I could have you like this, at the very scene of the murder," Jim gasped out, the idea making his blood pump hard enough for Sherlock to hear the strain in his voice.

Sherlock's thoughts derailed and split into several directions. Part of him was still dwelling on past possibilities. Another piece was responding to the stimuli, reacting in ways that he was slowly learning, cues forming connections and associations in his mind. A third portion was running over everything he knew, everything he'd researched and seen, and picturing what Jim was suggesting with curiosity and more than a little fear. Sherlock wasn't quite over feeling guilty about what he'd done to Jim. "I don't think that I can," he whispered.

"You can do anything if you just...set your mind to it," Jim said playfully and tapped a finger against Sherlock's temple. He waggled his small brows, just as sharp as they always were. "Just look at me." 

Sherlock still looked dubious. Jim leaned back in anyway, dropping the playful act but not his interest. 

"Just let me..." His arms were back around Sherlock's shoulders and his body, so extremely unlike his adult self, pressed against Sherlock again, and even in spite of the change, Sherlock could feel that he was interested. Jim never seemed to stop wanting him. "Let me...," Jim's petal soft lips brushed against Sherlock's jaw and his hips rocked against him like Jim was afraid he wouldn't get another chance to do this. 

Sherlock rarely had nerves on a case. Even knowing that he could die at the hands of the culprit he was tracking had never dissuaded him from putting himself in the line of fire. The truly unknown was an exception to the rule. The last time he could remember trembling like this was when he'd thought he was dealing with an unearthly, ghostly hound. That notion had proven false, but this time the ghost was real.

Jim had dropped the playful act, though. He seemed sincere and had adopted that careful, gentle demeanor that seemed to surface whenever Sherlock was in this form. Jim rocked against him again and Sherlock's arms tightened. He remembered the look Jim had gotten on his face - not pain, but pleasure.  
"...I'm afraid."

"To enjoy my company?" Jim sighed. Summing it up like that was a bit unfair, and anyway, Sherlock had little reason _not_ to be afraid of enjoying Jim's company. Jim was, however, set on getting something out of the scene their minds had created. He wouldn't move away in spite of Sherlock's trembles, nor even when he fidgeted. Jim held his arms around Sherlock's neck and lowered his head to the crook of Sherlock's shoulder. "What can I do to make it easier on you?" 

"...it's easier when you're not pretending, like this." Jim's predatory mannerisms were intriguing in their own way, but not something that made Sherlock want to open up and trust him. "...knowing you'd stop if I asked. Going slow." Slow enough that he could change his mind if he found out he couldn't take it. 

Jim lifted his head. "Then come into the pool with me." His hands fell and caught Sherlock's, pulling the other boy away from the wall. He opened the double doors his former self had been looking through and led Sherlock inside. Remnants of the crime scene investigation littered the walkways, but Jim only eyed them with a certain amount of pride. He held Sherlock's hand as they moved to the side of the pool until he stopped and turned Sherlock to face him. His hands came up and drew Sherlock's head down, pulling the taller boy back into a kiss. 

Sherlock's kiss was delicate, born of hesitancy not for the kiss itself, but what he knew Jim wanted to come afterwards. It was warmer in there. The chlorine tang in the air was sharper now that they were right beside the water, and light reflected off the pool surface, painting gossamer lines on everything in the room. Jim's eyes seemed darker, too - staring up and as hungry as they'd ever been. Sherlock's hands drifted back to Jim's sides and rested for a moment, then slid under the hem of Jim's t-shirt.

The gleam of delight in Jim's eyes might have been a reflection from the pool, but it hardly mattered. He shifted and moved into the touch while Sherlock slowly explored. Jim's skin was infinitely soft. His body was so small and pliable where he'd been hard and bony before. And he was slim. Sherlock could have probably picked him up and tossed him right into the pool if he'd wanted to. Not that that would have been a good idea, but...if he'd wanted to. 

"I could have come through that door," Jim whispered, "right when you were in the middle of it. I could have made myself known to you then and changed everything. I would have taken your hand, and led you to the poolside, and kissed you just like this..." Jim did it as he spoke. 

Sherlock knew his younger self would have been surprised, and curious. Far more curious, and completely unafraid, because he'd not yet have had the weight of countless rejections and alienation piled atop him. His tongue would have followed Jim's back into his mouth, as it did now, but without a tremor running through him. He simply would have been thrilled to have found, as he would have suspected, the culprit returning to the scene of the crime. And catching him, proving his cleverness.  
Jim certainly was caught, if not in the way Sherlock would have imagined all those years ago.

Small hands wound through Sherlock's curls and Jim moved up on his toes just to deepen the kiss. "Would you have come with me back then?" he asked as they parted. "If I had told you how I'd done it, and how I planned to concoct more crimes, and do it again, and again, would you have shared in my ideas? Or would you have run away, back to big brother and all that was safe?" Jim's weight rested against Sherlock, hanging in the moment. 

"N-not right away." Sherlock would have been thrilled, and overwhelmed, but he wouldn't have left home quite so quickly. "I would have gone home to think, and probably to pack some things. But... it would have seemed like an adventure." Like the pirate stories Mycroft had read to him, or fairy tale books: the youngest boy leaving home, even though no one believed he could make it, braving all dangers and comes out victorious, proving himself once and for all. And having another playmate who didn't make him feel inferior...

Jim's head tipped back to regard him. He reached his hand up to trace Sherlock's fine brow. "And then reality would have set it, and you would have hated me," he challenged with a raise of his own brow. "I made the world my playground, as you saw when we played our game. I didn't have to live in somebody else's fantasy." There was a fervor in his tone that told Sherlock Jim felt quite passionately about this, about essentially taking what he wanted and knowing full well the consequences it would bring. 

"Jim." Sherlock waited until Jim paused and actually listened. "I wouldn't have. If we'd met that early, you would have been like Peter Pan to me. An exciting escape from everything. I would have gone home, and planned, and packed, and snuck out the window again." With a head full of mysteries and murders, and childish dreams of becoming something like the people in books and movies. A legend, instead of a toy prodigy or freakish embarrassment.

Jim pulled back and looked at Sherlock. Really looked at him, and Sherlock could see that something in Jim was changing before it fully happened. His lust was held back by a new dawning emotion. Disbelief knotted his brows together, but a dull horror filled the rest of his face and twisted his mouth, horror that told Sherlock Jim _did_ believe him. Wide, dark eyes darted back and forth across Sherlock's face while the weight of Jim's missed opportunity, and the new certainty of what could have been, fell down upon him. 

It was so heavy in fact, that it sent Jim to his knees, fists clutched in Sherlock's full jacket. "Don't tell me that..." Jim whispered, but his voice wasn't steady.

Sherlock stared back in confusion before he realized what Jim must be thinking. It was gratifying, in a way, to see Jim openly distressed for once. For him to share in the pain that he'd meted out to Sherlock, and others, over and over again. He'd torn at Sherlock's body and mind without empathy or remorse.

That didn't negate the other feeling that rose up in Sherlock. Conflicted as he was, some measure of attachment had started to form in him. Sherlock felt a pang of sorrow as he watched, because anything that broke through Jim's defenses this thoroughly and laid him bare must have been exceedingly strong. Slowly, Sherlock followed Jim down until he was also on his knees.

He paused for a moment, inexperienced with fulfilling the role of comforter. After another moment's reflection his arms circled Jim and drew him in.

Jim went stiff and wouldn't unclench his fists from Sherlock's coat. He was like a statue, stricken with a very unsettling revelation. "If I could have...If I could have had you from the start - " He cut himself off, hissing, seemingly angry at his own weakness, but he was breathing heavy with a tight chest. Sherlock could feel it as much as he could hear it. What lost potential they'd shared had struck Jim hard. Harder than it should have. Apparently he'd lied when he said no one ever got to him. Because Sherlock certainly had. 

"You didn't, though." Sherlock said quietly. There was no getting around it. Jim had had concerns about his own safety, and rightly so. He'd erred on the side of caution, or maybe hadn't even known what he'd wanted back then. He'd made a decision, and their lives had played out the way they had. "You made a different choice. You didn't have me then and you can't change that. All you can do is make different choices right now."

Jim hissed again and his black eyes snapped up to Sherlock. He did not look happy at all, perhaps a little ashamed of his reaction, but the words he spat out were bitter truths. "Now, when I'm _dead_ and you refuse to step out of the little box you and your brother have made for yourself? Tell me, what's so great about _now_?" Jim's fists balled and he yanked hard at the lapels of Sherlock's coat, as though if he just shook him hard enough, Sherlock would see what Jim did. 

Sherlock was seeing Jim. Jim stripped of the protective facade that had finally cracked as the tragedy of it all had hit him. Sherlock softened, looking back at a face that no longer radiated primal confidence, but anger and pain. Fixated on loss, looking backwards, just as Sherlock had only a few minutes ago. He grabbed onto Jim's hands, stilling them, then grabbed Jim's head and pulled him into a kiss.

That shut Jim up. 

Although he stiffened at first. Nearly even pulled back. But this was what he'd wanted, and Sherlock had finally surprised him by initiating it when Jim was off guard. 

When Sherlock pressed in, moving against Jim's mouth, Jim responded. He did so slowly. For someone who could turn emotions on a dime, he took a while to come around. Eventually he lifted his hands and touched Sherlock in return. Jim’s dark eyes closed into the kiss, like he was taking a moment to imagine what could have been. Two young boys by the poolside, one a killer, smart enough to get away with it, the other smart enough to see how. 

Sherlock didn’t have to search through past, constructed memories to feel warmth this time. He was startled to find that the weight in his chest felt much like the one that had nestled there whenever his former blogger had done something particularly endearing or heartbreaking. When Jim's eyes reopened and their gazes met, Sherlock was still uneasy about what Jim might decide to do, but he didn't want to push the other boy away. Particularly not now, not while Jim was open like this. If he did the wrong thing, Jim might never open up again.

Jim was searching him in return, calculating, but with neither the cold nor fiery intensity of his usual gaze. He was analysing where Sherlock stood now, and finally, he seemed to approve. 

Jim was still dead and Sherlock was still in a memory within a dream, but when Jim reached back to kiss him again, all that fell away just enough to be ignored. Jim was the culprit Sherlock had been looking for, and Sherlock was the playmate Jim had wanted, and finally they'd found one another. Whether that was over two decades ago or in the present didn't particularly matter at the moment. 

Sherlock had experienced kissing enough now to have a general idea to build from, and just enough comfort to actually try. He mimicked what Jim had done to him before, licking and biting at the other boy's lips until they parted to let him in. This, he could do. The taste was familiar, but the feel wasn't - not with Jim like this, smaller and softer.

Once Jim began to come around, it didn't take him long to catch up. Though his fervor was significantly more subdued than it had been before, he still grasped at Sherlock and moved into his space. Jim was deepening the kiss. He was climbing into Sherlock's lap. His knees fell around Sherlock's waist and Jim just sat there, kissing him back, trying little by little to burrow in Sherlock's space. If it hadn't been for the barrier of his skin, Jim might have slipped right underneath. His small shoulders hunched and he crowded Sherlock so much they had to lean back, and as soon as Jim noticed, he was pushing Sherlock down, trying to get him to lie back. 

Sherlock's nerves surfaced again, but he let himself be guided by the small hands pushing at his shoulders. The poolside floor was cool and uncomfortable. Sherlock was grateful for the small amount of padding his coat gave him. 

Jim didn't give him space to breathe a word. Didn't give him space at all, still pressed as close as he could get, kissing Sherlock like he could devour his soul through that alone. Sherlock started to feel dizzy, and not just from lack of air. His hands slid into Jim's hair.

Jim groaned aloud. His fingers fumbled down Sherlock's front, seizing the fastenings of his coat and releasing them until Jim could dip his hands inside. He wrapped his whole body around Sherlock and couldn't seem to figure out whether he wanted to close his eyes and try to enfold himself in Sherlock's clothes or whether he wanted to devour the other boy, pursuing a more intense form of intimacy. And it seemed to frustrate him, because every now and then Jim let out a whine, one that let Sherlock know that things had not completely settled within him. 

Sherlock did his best to breathe around Jim's possessive grip and demanding lips. Jim's movements caused their hips to grind together briefly, and Sherlock couldn't quite stifle a groan. Jim fixed him with a look, and that was enough to send a violent shiver through Sherlock's body. He thought Jim had been intense before, but he was absolutely _driven_ now. 

All that squirming didn't stop Jim's hands from rucking up Sherlock's shirt, nor undoing its buttons either. He was a little too hurried, and he might not have gotten them all, but he freed the garment at last. He pulled away just long enough to look at Sherlock, splayed out on the tile floor, clothes in disarray and hair in a wild halo about his head. Jim was back down again after only a second, hitching himself up to press his mouth to Sherlock's collar bone while his hands ventured lower. Jim was perhaps caught between his adult self and his child one. Unless he had always been like this, which, after a moment's thought, was not a far stretch of the imagination.

Sherlock wasn't quite able to let go. He'd finally gotten to the point where he'd processed some of what they'd done and admitted to himself that he'd enjoyed it, that he was attracted to Jim even when the man made him angry or traumatized, but it was still so soon. A person would normally have a lot of time to process changes in identity and be introduced to sexuality, but they were not normal people and their relationship, such as it was, was no exception. Sherlock felt a fluttering in his stomach and chest and tried not to squirm when Jim's hands found skin.

When Sherlock whimpered, Jim moved to his ear, nipping and soothing and sushing him with small sounds and warm air. His palm moved over Sherlock‘s groin first, and then his fingers, small enough to find the perfect grip. Jim wasn't slow, but his voice entered Sherlock's ear at the same time, so soft, even softer than his usual self. "Come and join me, Sherlock. _Pleeeasse._ Give in." Just like Jim was back at the pool. Like he'd come out and seduced Sherlock with his wit and his danger and his incredible intensity, and even...even his longing for another like himself. 

Sherlock did want someone. Mycroft wasn't enough, as someone vaguely similar who'd placed himself behind mental walls too thick and tall to ever be truly reached. John had been a treasured companion, flattering him and accepting of his eccentricities, but equally unobtainable and frustrating in his inequality. John was gone now; had never really been Sherlock’s, had never really had the chance of being his. Just a temporary state in Sherlock's life, whatever Sherlock might have wanted otherwise.

Jim was here and wasn't going away. He understood the loneliness and banality, the pain of living behind glass and separated from the rest of humanity. He understood boredom and flexible ethics. Even more, he wanted Sherlock and was capable of kindness and consideration when motivated. Not everything was an act, and his pain had been very real. Real enough that he'd abandoned living.

Sherlock bit his lower lip and thrust up against Jim's hand. He was still afraid, but Jim's constant efforts were crumbling yet another wall Sherlock had built for himself.

Jim's eyes closed, Sherlock could feel it with the other boy’s lashes against his neck. Jim's breath hitched as though he were the one being touched. 

"You've no idea what you do to me. How long I've wanted this." And how Jim must have never thought it could be. Sometimes the pain of a thing so desperately longed for becoming real was almost worse than the longing itself. It had sent even Jim to his knees, the boy, the man, who wanted things only in order to destroy them. Who hadn't been able to cope with wanting Sherlock as the exception. 

Jim removed his hand only long enough to pull Sherlock's pants down over his hips, and then Jim's were following. His free hand took Sherlock's and Jim pressed it to his hip, never breaking his rhythm. He guided Sherlock's hand inward, youthful dark eyes watching for signs of hesitance. 

Jim couldn't have missed the nervous look in Sherlock's features, but his pupils were blown wide. Sherlock didn't resist the guidance, and his touch was light and shaky, but not hesitant. His fingers wrapped around Jim's cock, and his eyes devoured every flicker of expression on Jim's face. If Sherlock was going to brave this particular unknown, he wanted assurance that he wasn't alone, that he wasn't accompanied by a projection. "I'm starting to get a general idea," he whispered, a little late. His voice wasn't steady, but his hand started stroking.

Jim's breath caught. Sherlock could feel him shudder. His lips pressed to Sherlock's neck and his hips thrust back into Sherlock's hand. Jim set the rhythm between them. It was quick and slightly desperate, even though they had both so recently experienced climax in another dream. A dream within a dream. The real world barely seemed to matter anymore. Not when they were buried this deep and Sherlock was rutting into Jim and Jim was raw inside and Sherlock could see holes in his shroud. Jim whined. His one free hand wound around Sherlock's shoulders and slid up into his hair. Jim moved in to kiss him, and Sherlock could feel him still shaking. 

Sherlock was having trouble keeping track of reality, and of time. It all seemed so fluid and unreal. The real world was doubtlessly progressing outside, but it was all so distant. Jim was real, and Sherlock was inside his mind, finally watching the shutters open just a crack to let him in. And he wanted in; his kiss said as much, as did the arm he slid around Jim's back. He didn't want to be alone anymore, and he wanted a companion, not an adversary.

"Sherlock," Jim whispered. Over and over he said Sherlock's name to the beat of their thrusts, slipping as they grew more frantic. Jim could certainly hear Sherlock’s sounds, he didn't need actual words, just the sound of Sherlock’s voice, unusually light, gasping and crying out in little bursts every time Jim squeezed just right. It seemed to spike Jim's arousal higher and higher. Jim drew himself as close as he possibly could to Sherlock while they still moved. They barely avoided the water. It was probably the only thing that would have stopped Jim at that point. Anyone could have walked in on them and Jim wouldn’t have noticed or cared. 

Jim's frenzy drove coherent thought out of Sherlock's mind. He couldn't think about anything else but what he was feeling and the small form draped across him, chanting his name into his ear while they entangled and ground against each other. Sherlock couldn’t do anything but hold on and let himself react. Jim's hand twisted just right, and Sherlock finally gasped Jim's name. It seemed natural; everything around them had contracted to the two of them and the sound of soft, lapping water at their side.

Jim cried out. Possibly he couldn't take the sound of his own name on Sherlock's lips. Not when he said it like that. Sherlock felt Jim jerk in his hand and strain against him. Jim strained all over. His grip in Sherlock's hair turned almost painful. Jim trembled. His body went limp and Sherlock heard a muffled sound, from somewhere beside his neck. It could have been a word, but was more likely a sigh. Jim's arms, however, did not loosen. Pliant as he was, he refused to move away even an inch. 

Sherlock thrust a few more times against Jim's hand, but it was too soon for him. He stilled with a sigh and shut his eyes. Jim was still latched tight around him, and now that they weren't moving the sound of the pool was much clearer, accompanied by Jim's breathing against his neck and the flutter of his own racing heartbeat. Sherlock was uncomfortable and still aroused, but not bothered enough to break the moment.

His hand released Jim. It took a bit of wriggling before he could get his arm free from where it was trapped between them. He wrapped it around Jim and stared up at the ceiling. "...are you alright?"

He felt a laugh warm his neck, a puff of air more than anything. "No." 

But then Jim was crawling over him, so he could see Sherlock, and when he did Jim looked at him...kindly, if kind could ever be used in conjunction with Jim. His fingers slipped out of Sherlock's hair and stroked down the edges of his face and Jim still looked a little raw, but he was functioning. Even smiling, just a little, before he kissed Sherlock's mouth. And then his jaw. And his neck. And his chest. And his belly button. And then Jim worked Sherlock's trousers down just a little more, and took him into his mouth. 

Sherlock moaned and his eyes fluttered shut. He still wasn't used to this, and somehow it felt _more_ intense after the look Jim had just given him than when he'd felt manipulated into it. He was no longer half-expecting Jim to bite him, or kill him in a split-second whim, or force things past the hard line Sherlock had drawn. Part of Sherlock had realized that, as much as Jim had desperately wanted him for an excruciating length of time, he still hadn't forced things into what he'd wanted from the start. 

Jim didn’t hesitate after that. He felt Sherlock relaxing into the new touch, as much as Sherlock could relax at the moment, and Jim began to suck. He picked up the pace again, and he sucked _hard_. When Sherlock's hand scrabbled for something to hold, Jim caught it in his own, squeezing tight. He didn't need his hands to suck Sherlock off, not when he was this small, but Jim still hung onto his hip. Perhaps just to ground himself, to dig his nails in the soft flesh and feel it mold for him. 

Sherlock's other hand caught a fistful of Jim's hair. The feeling was almost _more_ unbalancing - he could feel Jim's head moving up and down. Sherlock’s hips canted up with little effect; his body craved more stimulation but Jim was already swallowing him whole. Sherlock heard a desperate whine echo off the pool walls, and it took a moment to realize it had come from him. He flushed with embarrassment.

And then Jim moaned in return. _He_ was certainly not sorry to hear it. The eerie blue light danced in his dark eyes as he smiled up at Sherlock, either proud of what Jim had caused him to do or proud of Sherlock for having done it. It didn't deter his efforts though. In fact, it redoubled them. Jim swirled his tongue and hollowed his cheeks and his long lashes shuttered low over his eyes. He might have still been imagining this was what their first time could have been, but he wasn't lost to the present either. And he seemed to enjoy pleasuring Sherlock no less. 

Sherlock's grip tightened suddenly and he arched against Jim's mouth with a cry, going completely rigid and shaking. The hardness of the ground beneath him barely registered; Sherlock's mind was replaying Jim's smile and the way it had looked when he'd glanced down and watched himself disappear into Jim's mouth. And watched Jim enjoy it. It was a good number of seconds before Sherlock slumped bonelessly back to the ground, panting and feeling overheated despite the cool air.

Jim crawled up his slim frame without hesitation, until he was half draped over Sherlock and half in the crook of his shoulder. Jim's legs twined around his own and he buried his face in Sherlock's neck, not doing anything to help the heat. But Jim wouldn't be pried away. He was there and desperate for Sherlock's solidity. Their chests heaved with effort to calm their hearts. 

Minutes passed and still the dream remained. Jim wouldn't give it up. 

Sherlock never thought any of this would happen. It wasn't just the impossibilities of Jim's personality and untimely death; Sherlock had resigned himself to being alone, had accepted that there were some aspects of life that he was never going to experience... and convinced himself he didn't need or want them anyway. Part of what had driven him to mad, impulsive actions - faking his death and going undercover to root out dangers, forgiving his would-be assassin, murdering Magnussen in cold blood - had been provoked by desperation, trying to hold onto the rare companionship and affection he'd found by happenstance.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably and wondered when he'd started equating John and Jim in his head. It had to signify that he had developed similar feelings about both, but while he'd let John go for the sake of the man's happiness, Jim was never going to leave. Couldn't leave. Didn't _want_ to leave, even, considering that the man had chased after Sherlock for the majority of his life and hadn't stopped in death.

If it weren't for the beating of his heart and the rise of his chest, Sherlock would have thought he was still dead. Jim's fingers twined around the shirt that still hung from Sherlock's shoulders, but he didn't utter a word. It was almost as though he were in a half lucid state. Sherlock had felt his thoughts derail during their encounters before, but this time it appeared to linger. Like Jim would rather not have returned to reality. 

Much as Sherlock could appreciate the sentiment, their location wasn't conducive to lingering in the afterglow. Jim might have been comfortable atop him, but Sherlock wanted to move. 

"...Jim. Jim, let me up." When the other boy didn't move, Sherlock frowned. "I'm getting cold and the floor hurts. You don't have to let go, but I want to at least move somewhere else."

Jim sighed. But he lifted his head. "Fine," he mumbled and let Sherlock go in order to get up and fix his trousers. Not a very difficult feat when they hadn't made a mess and his hips were so narrow to begin with. The point of Jim’s lethargy, however, had been not to break the moment, and Sherlock had done just that. Even though it had to be done. 

Once Jim was on his feet again, he looked around the pool with, if Sherlock wasn't mistaken, a note of nostalgia in his eyes before he lowered them. The lights flickered and began to grow dim. Like Jim were getting ready to power down their environment. 

Sherlock fixed his own clothing with only a brief flush of self-consciousness and joined Jim. He twined their fingers together. The room darkened and started to dissolve away, condensed and growing distant until it was a far-off point of light. Sherlock glanced around and recognized the starry void from their earliest encounters and knew that _this_ must be... Jim's mind. His palace, or rather, his universe. The fact that it had appeared and taken over portions of Sherlock's own mind made him wonder just how deeply the man's ghost must be tied to him.

Jim glanced to Sherlock. He'd noticed Sherlock looking. Their eyes met and slowly a smile spread across Jim's face. He didn't say any more on it than that. 

"As much as I would like to explore, you need to go back," was what Jim did say. "We need to take care of Sebastian." His demeanor was docile enough and his hand was sure enough in Sherlock's palm that he didn't seem to be lying, or playing on some ulterior motive. Jim would remember well his agreement on their tentative plan. 

Sherlock tensed and his grip on Jim's hand tightened, but he knew Jim was right. Or right _enough_. Sebastian was highly motivated and if Jim was confident he was still in the area, he would be. And would want to move against Sherlock as quickly as possible, rather than risk being caught and never getting the chance again. 

"Are you sure you have enough control? We've only done one practice trip."

"I am. If you don't fight me," Jim reminded him. In truth, Jim probably wouldn't need _solid_ control but for the very beginning, just to get Moran to come around. They didn't have to keep Sherlock under wraps completely, just enough to let Jim interact with the man one on one. Enough to convince him that Sherlock didn't need to be subdued, and that Jim was very much still…if not alive himself, then at least present in the land of the living. 

Jim had promised he'd be able to subdue Sebastian once they had convinced him. That seemed like a tenuous thing to promise, but....if anyone could manage it.... 

The world shifted around them again, this time Jim's doing. He stepped closer to Sherlock and the stars blinked out, at first one by one and then all at once, and when Sherlock opened his eyes, they were back in his first dream, in the 221B of years ago, stretched out and naked on Sherlock's bed. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and was still for a moment. He could feel his body shifting with his mind, his memories drawing on another time and fitting him to the age when this room had been created. He reached out and touched the warm body beside him. "...I'm going to wake up a mess again. Give me some time to clean up and get ready. Do you have a guess as to where he's holed up, or are you going to be running me around London for the next few days trying to find him?"

"He'll have found somewhere new, but I have a few ideas." Warm light from the window fell on the side of Jim's face as he lifted to look at Sherlock. He looked very satisfied lying like that in Sherlock's bed. His hair was tousled and there were marks on his shoulders where Sherlock had been too rough, but Jim looked as content as a king. Sherlock must look similar, as Jim seemed just as happy to stare at him. "I anticipate not more than a day." 

Sherlock nodded. 

Something significant had changed between them; Sherlock stared intently at Jim for a good minute, just taking in details and filing them away. His lips parted to speak, but Sherlock found he didn't know what to say. 

He shook his head and rolled out of bed. The dream dissolved as his feet hit the floor, and when Sherlock opened his eyes again, he found himself sprawled out on the floor of the living room with a now-familiar sticky feeling and an aching back. 

He grimaced and peered at the window, trying to discern from the light and sounds of traffic just how long he'd been out.


	11. Chapter 11

Light was filtering in through the sitting room windows, not too dissimilar from the light in Sherlock’s dream, if more subdued. He could have slept the rest of the night through. Or, he could have slept through an entire day. It remained unclear whether time in the dream state passed in the same way every time Sherlock went there, or whether it had any relativity to the real world at all. This was remedied by a glance to his phone, which told him in no uncertain terms that it was precisely 6:26 am the following day. He'd been out for a night only. Once Sherlock had determined this, he felt a faint flicker of a laugh from the air around him. 

He'd amused Jim. 

Sherlock cringed and got to his feet. He put the kettle on for tea before he staggered off toward the bathroom to clean off. One of the major inconveniences of his new reality, it was clear, was a sharp uptick in the amount of laundry and showers. All said, it could have been much worse.

Private routines were eerie precisely because Sherlock could feel that they weren't private anymore. When he stripped down and stepped under the showerhead, he could still feel Jim's eyes on him as if the man were standing right behind him. All of his thoughts were also open to inspection; privacy was no longer a feature of his life, at least where Jim was concerned.

Jim didn't seem to be in a hurry to go off and find Moran, either, which would lead Sherlock to believe he was sticking around for the shower. This was further evidenced by a prickle of warmth running down Sherlock's back that had nothing at all to do with the water. Jim's silence and invisibility made it somewhat unsettling. He could have spoken if he'd wanted to. Sherlock couldn't tell where he was, if he even _was_ in any one particular place rather than spread out over a certain circumference in this state.

Sherlock let his head tilt down until his damp curls hung over his eyes. He shivered but continued washing. _"Not had enough yet? I suppose you're making up for lost time. Twenty-odd years is a long wait."_ Sherlock raised one hand and pried off the bandage at his neck. He couldn't see it, but he could feel the sting when water hit the bite marks. 

He could hear Jim hum pleasantly. "It is," was all the spirit would admit. Perhaps he was thinking it was worth it, or perhaps he was still grieving the lost time and opportunity. Whatever he thought, Sherlock got the sense that no matter how much pain Jim had caused him with their first encounter, Jim enjoyed seeing that mark on Sherlock's neck. Probably even more so when he didn't have the teeth to do it, not without excessive concentration. 

Sherlock felt little touches as he continued to shower. Jim's attention never left him. Sometimes they were in odd places, like Jim was mapping his body, but mostly they were pleasant and warm. 

Sherlock felt a little... cheated. Jim could see and touch wherever he wanted and watch the thoughts go through his head like they were being broadcast on the telly. Sherlock, in return... couldn't see where he was, couldn't get a sense of what Jim was thinking unless he spoke and willingly offered the information... and couldn't touch. The situation was incredibly one-sided.

He ran shampoo through his hair and tried to ignore the fact that he was bothered, especially by the fact that Jim would instantly know he was bothered, and why.

_"I would have you see me if I could,"_ Jim's voice whispered through the air. And then chuckled. _"As nice as it is to sneak up on you without even trying, I enjoy the way you look at me. Notably, when I look at you. You get this expression sometimes, like a deer in headlights,"_ and now Sherlock could really hear the amusement, if fond, _"when you can't decide whether you like me or not."_ Jim's voice slithered up to Sherlock's ear. _"But I especially like it when you do."_

"You never realize how disconcerting it is to know someone is in the room, yet never be able to spot them, until you've experienced it." Mycroft's cameras didn't count and didn't even come close. They didn't have the weight of presence, and his brother's bugging team wasn't nearly as clever as they thought they were.

Sherlock wasn't particularly happy to be compared to a dumbstruck herbivore, either. "And that's what you've decided? That I like you and am too shocked to admit it?"

Jim chuckled again. _"Yes. Well, you were before last night anyway. And now you've admitted it."_ Jim seemed very pleased with himself. Sherlock felt the phantom press of fingers against his neck before Jim's presence receded. He knew he was distracting Sherlock from his shower. Even though it didn't negate the feel of his ever watchful presence, it did take away some of the unsettling surprises at being touched in odd places. _"Once I've found Moran, we'll need to move quickly,"_ Jim switched tracks. _"He won't wait long, either to strike or to move again."_

"I'm going to trust your judgment on that." Sherlock rinsed one last time and turned off the water. Once he was dry, dressed, and the bite wound freshly bandaged, Sherlock headed for the kitchen. The kettle had been whistling for some time by then, and Sherlock set a mug of tea to steep and popped two slices of bread in the toaster. "I understand that things might not go according to plan and you might have to improvise, but it might be beneficial for you to explain what you're going to do to him. It's much easier to relax when I know what's coming."

> "I'm going to set an ambush, and once he's incapacitated, I'm going to have the task of convincing him that you are in fact me, wearing your face. I know you have the necessary chemicals on hand to knock him out just long enough to be restrained, mind, but he'll need to have his wits about him in order to believe me in the end." Jim paused while Sherlock buttered his toast. _"If things go awry and it takes too long, we'll have to bring him back here. Which I plan to do anyway, but it would be much easier if he goes willingly. This of course means avoiding your brother's external security, and disabling any within the premises."_

Sherlock paused, then frowned. This hadn't been part of the agreement. "So once you convince your pet assassin not to kill me _or_ fuck me, you want him to move in as my new assistant. Fantastic. I'll just send him out to run errands and hope the secret service doesn't spot him. Or that I don't get any surprise visits from Lestrade."

Sherlock bit into his toast angrily, but he got to his feet and went to the bookshelves. He unfolded a laminated map when he returned to the table and dug out a marker from one of the kitchen drawers. "There's no security in the flat. It's part of an agreement I have with Mycroft, and I check regularly to make certain he's not breaking the terms. There are too many cameras outside for me to point them out as we go, so I'll mark them down. I trust you'll be able to remember."

Jim hummed pleasantly as Sherlock marked points in the streets and buildings nearby. He could feel Jim's presence close, warm this time instead of his usual chill. It was no mystery why Jim wanted to bring Sebastian to the flat. It would be the last place both the Met and Mycroft would suspect. It would keep him from fleeing the country. And above all, it would probably benefit Jim in his battle with Sherlock. Whether Sebastian would be willing to come and whether it could be permanent was another matter entirely. Everything hinged on how much sway Jim still held over him after death. 

_"Good,"_ Jim whispered when Sherlock was finished. _"Off I go then, love. Do try not to fret while I'm away."_

Sherlock blinked as Jim's presence abruptly disappeared from the flat. He'd seen and heard nothing, but Jim was unmistakably gone. The back of his head felt empty and the warmth was quickly fading.

Sherlock shook his head. Jim would be back soon enough, and there were things to take care of in the meantime. He finished his light breakfast and began sorting through his email and the news, looking for anything that might be worth taking on. Nothing truly exciting or challenging caught his eye. His phone, too, was suspiciously blank. He would have figured that Lestrade would keep him in the loop, but evidently the DI had decided that Sherlock's odd absences and subsequent assault merited a blackout period to force him to rest.

It was odd that even John was quiet, until Sherlock took into account that only a night had passed since they'd last spoken. If John were still living in the flat, he would have checked on Sherlock first thing in the morning. Now, however, John probably wasn't even aware he was awake yet. 

Much of the morning passed before Sherlock finally did receive a text. It was from John, as expected. Short and sweet as John, in spite of his blogging hobby, had never really taken to being long winded in conversation. He simply asked whether Sherlock slept well. By the time John asked whether Sherlock would like any company, it was well into the late afternoon. Due to John's work schedule no doubt. 

Sherlock didn't have the chance to reply before he felt Jim's presence drop over the flat once again. 

He texted back a quick refusal and a promise to set up a visit another time. He didn't want John taking a lack of reply as Sherlock being in distress and to have the doctor show up on his doorstep at the worst possible time.

"Well? Did you manage to find him?" Sherlock was curious just how far Jim could actually go. Since no one had documented a situation like theirs, he had no idea if there were physical limitations, although it made sense that there would be some.

He didn't receive a reply right away. What he got was Jim invading his space, invading his very body. And Sherlock could _feel_ it. Jim was cold again, and he wrapped himself underneath Sherlock's skin like Sherlock was the only warm thing left in the world. It nearly knocked him back down into the armchair. 

It wasn't...an attack. When Jim spoke, his voice was more difficult to hear than it usually was. He wasn't speaking softly, but it didn't come through as well. _"South side of London. Not far from Greenwich Park."_ Jim quieted for a few more moments before his voice grew more solid. His presence began to warm, seeping heat from Sherlock's core. _"He's holed up in an empty flat."_

Sherlock shivered violently, suddenly chilled. He suspected he had part of his answer; he'd always gotten cold when Jim had drained him to take some sort of action. Clearly wandering too far seeped the ghost's energy away. 

Sherlock felt movement under his skin and shivered again, for a very different reason this time. It was intimate in a completely unnatural, unnerving way. "Let's not have you do that very often. I feel like I’ve just been dropped into ice water. Give me a few minutes to warm back up before we leave. Is there anything you're going to need to subdue him?"

_"Good old fashioned morphine should do the trick. And some rope."_ Jim stayed put, refusing to move even when Sherlock could feel that he was finally coming around to a normal temperature. _"This is going to be a waiting game. He won't be leaving the flat often, but when he does, we're going to move. Together. He's got a camera set up outside the door and window and he'll be checking them often, before he leaves and before he returns. You won't be able to enter the flat until I've got him down, which means I need to bring him down first, and you need to get a needle in him before he gets back up. Then we drag him back into the flat and wait out the morphine."_ While Jim recharged went unsaid. 

Sherlock nodded and stood, rubbing at his arms while he went to retrieve supplies from one of his hidden compartments. A press of a button underneath the countertop edge and one of the tiles in the kitchen clicked open, revealing a small kit. Sherlock opened the case and selected two bottles and a small pack of syringes. It didn't hurt to be cautious and take along extra, just in case. "Sebastian doesn't have a history of substance abuse that you know of, does he?" It wouldn't be entirely out of the question for an ex-soldier. 

_"Not that kind. A sizeable dose for an adult male should do the trick. Don't overdo it, or we'll be waiting too long. Long enough for your brother to notice your absence."_ Sherlock could almost hear Jim's sigh. _"We're going to have to do something about that someday..."_ But that was for another time. Even if it did put Sherlock in an awkward place, Jim didn't sound like he had any plans to take on Mycroft soon.

"You'll leave my brother alone," Sherlock muttered, but he made a note of the dosage and prefilled a couple of syringes, then capped them. There would be more than enough, although hopefully he wouldn't miss with the first strike. "That should be enough. Trite as this might sound, do you remember the camera locations immediately outside the building, or do you need me to get us out of the flat undetected?"

_"I remember the cameras,"_ Jim scoffed, _"But I need you in charge of your own body until I can get the jump on him. And I'll need to save my energy until then."_ Needless to say, Sebastian would never see Jim coming. He would, of course, see Sherlock, but if Jim could get him on the ground long enough for Sherlock to get a needle in him, that wouldn't matter. _"We can't tip him off with a diversion to get him out of the flat either. He needs to be completely unaware for the ambush to work. Which means we wait. Fortunately for us, he'll have found his small supply of canned goods mysteriously amiss by now."_

"Was that what drained you, or was is the distance?" Or perhaps it had been both. Moving objects had taken a large portion of Jim's energy before, although at the time he'd seemed to leech what he needed from Sherlock directly. He didn't particularly want to find out what happened to a ghost that drained itself completely.

Sherlock went out of the top floor window again, levering himself up onto the rooftop. He began to walk, keeping low until he could find a convenient fire escape to take down to the ground. "Where am I heading, exactly? I'm going to need an address to give the cabbie. I don't plan on walking the whole way ducking cameras, and taking the underground is just inviting trouble."

_"Take the A2 down to the crossing at Deptford Bridge. You can walk from there. Won't be far."_ Apparently Jim didn't think allowing even a cabbie the knowledge of their destination was worthwhile. Sherlock could feel Jim's presence, a constant no longer under his very skin but almost draped over his shoulders as he moved. And he did have to duck cameras to get to the street. If Moran had a camera outside his door, that would likely leave Sherlock loitering outside the building until Moran moved. It would have to be fast. They couldn't be seen by passersby either, especially not dragging a severely compromised man back inside. 

Sherlock eventually got down to the street undetected and managed to flag a cab down. If the driver recognized him from the telly and newspapers, he didn't show it. Traffic was thick with people going out for a night on the town and Sherlock slouched in the back seat to try to maintain some anonymity and avoid getting caught by any cameras they might pass.

He had no idea what Mycroft would say about his situation if he began to question Sherlock's behavior. He would likely be able to spot a lie, and the truth wouldn't satisfy him either. Best to avoid suspicion entirely by passing without notice.

The cab finally pulled over and let him out at Deptford Bridge. Sherlock handed over a few notes and quickly got out of view, ducking into an alley where there was a camera gap. _"...alright, now what?"_

_"Cross the construction lot. You'll come up behind a row of apartments. We'll find him in the farthest south, second floor, room 205."_ Sherlock began to make his way as Jim instructed, until they came upon the back street and a high wall. With the help of a pick and Jim's layout of the building Sherlock was able to slip through a maintenance door and come around to the side. The opposite side Sebastian resided in, just in case. _"Wait here,"_ Jim instructed, and then disappeared. 

Sherlock grew more and more tense the longer Jim was gone. He could make educated guesses, but he didn't know the layout of the building, nor if the rest of the tenants were of as dubious character as Sebastian. If they were the paranoid sort, they'd notice a new face loitering in the hallways. Sherlock did his best to keep out of site and look inconspicuous, but there was only so much that could be done when wearing a dark greatcoat. Even the space between his shoulder blades felt unusually cold with Jim gone.

Jim didn't hide his presence when he returned. He slipped under Sherlock's skin, not cold this time, but probably for just that little bit of extra energy. _"We've got some time,"_ Jim informed him. _"Best find a nice little nook until he stirs."_

If Moran decided to wait it out until nightfall, Sherlock would be waiting a long time. Jim either did not take this into account or simply did not care. Or, perhaps he was counting on Sebastian not needing to rely on the cover of darkness to feel safe. 

Sherlock crept along the ground floor, slowly and cautiously. Eventually he spotted a maintenance room. He picked the lock easily, and it was as he expected - a storage closet, but with more than enough room for him to hide inside. Flats were never cleaned and serviced at night unless there was an emergency, which meant he could wait without having to worry about being caught by a caretaker. _"How am I going to know when he's moving? Are you just going to go check every few minutes?"_

_"I'll tell you. It's not too far."_

Jim was Sherlock's eyes and ears now. And his only way to pass the time. They made sure Sherlock would be able to hear Jim's call from as far as Sebastian's flat. In truth, Jim would probably let him get as far as the end of the hall before he took Sebastian down, just to get Sherlock as close as possible. Unseen attacker or no, Moran was not a good adversary to engage in close quarters. Jim lingered close to Sherlock as they waited, presumably to retain energy. Sometimes he would turn his attention outward, disappear for a moment, and return, like he could hear Moran moving. 

Finally, hours later, Jim did perk up. _"Showtime,"_ he said before Sherlock felt him disappear. 

Sherlock double-checked the syringes in his pocket. He was going to have to be quick. Sebastian had a lot more bulk to him and was likely to be hard to take down; Sherlock was banking on the fact that Jim knew what he was doing and that the element of surprise was on their side.

The detective cocked his head and listened, but he couldn't hear anything between the maintenance door, ventilation noise, and the padded carpet outside the door. His hand turned on the doorknob. All that remained was for Jim to take control and yank the door open.

When he did hear it, there was no missing it. Jim's voice rang out from a distance that was both far away and did not adhere to the boundaries of the walls. 

_"Now!"_ And what followed was the unmistakable sound of a body colliding with the wall. 

When Sherlock burst through the door, the first thing he saw was the now familiar gunman on the floor, head toward Sherlock and one hand holding his ear. Jim must have forced him headfirst into the wall. It was the only thing that could have put him off balance like that, trying to rise but shooting his other arm out to steady himself.

Sherlock moved as quickly as he could, closing the distance and whipping out one of the pre-filled syringes. There wasn't time to be gentle. Sherlock grabbed him and drove the needle into his neck. With Sebastian’s tense muscles, it surely hurt, and it was likely to form a spectacular bruise later on. Sherlock depressed the plunger and darted back out of reach, uncapping and readying another syringe if the first proved not to be enough.

"You!," Moran shouted, " _Fuck!_ " His hand went to his neck like there was any chance of stopping the drug from entering his system. Sherlock could see precisely the moment it hit Moran as he rose to his feet. His jaw dropped open and he swayed, this time with legs weak and focus severely compromised. His face contorted in something that would have been pleasure if he didn't look like he was trying to fight it with every ounce of his will. He swayed again as he tried to take a step toward Sherlock. "Morphine?" Moran grunted with another step, his reflexes and thought processes slowing as the high took over, and Sherlock had given him a strong dose. Strong enough to send him sinking to his knees, looking like the world was tilting around him. He looked nauseous, but fighting it. When he fell, he was too slow to catch himself. 

"Yes." And the right dosage, apparently. Not too weak, not too strong. Sherlock turned to glance at both ends of the hallway. The gunman's shout wasn't completely out of line for a block of flats, particularly in this part of town, but someone might get curious. Especially if he decided to keep making noise. Morphine had many effects, but rendering the victim mute wasn't one of them unless unconsciousness set in.

Sherlock kicked Sebastian over and took out a length of rope. Under normal circumstances, Sebastian would have had the advantage even with Sherlock's judo training taken into consideration, but the assassin's body wasn't cooperating with him. Sherlock quickly got the man's hands bound behind his back. "Where, Jim? Which room?"

_"End of the hall. 205. Gag him,"_ came Jim's unsympathetic instructions. 

"Don't you speak his name," Moran slurred, his mind not quite catching up properly with his words. He hadn't heard Jim, then, only Sherlock, speaking to what must have seemed thin air. Still, Moran had to have been questioning Jim's presence by then. He'd heard Jim's voice before. He'd briefly heard his words coming out of Sherlock. Now it was time to put Moran's belief to the test. He tried to lash out at Sherlock, but he was far too slow, far too uncoordinated. And his voice was rising. "I'll spread your guts down this hall, do you hear me?"

Sherlock patted his pockets, grimaced, and unlooped his scarf. It was the only thing he had on him capable of gagging the man. Clothes could be cleaned or bought anew, however; death was permanent, and the top priority was neutralizing this man as a threat.

Sherlock didn't respond to Moran's words. He worked his hand around the gunman's jaw and forced his mouth open, then looped the strip of fabric between his lips and tied it tightly in place. Once he was muffled, Sherlock dragged him back toward his room as quickly as he could, which wasn't nearly as quickly as he would have liked. Sebastian was heavy, and Sherlock wasn't particularly known for his arm strength.

He lost another half-minute picking the lock of Sebastian's room. Luckily, no one had come looking to see what the commotion was about.

Jim was being unhelpfully silent, too. The least he could have done was make himself known to Sebastian, who was writhing in a stupor on the floor before Sherlock managed to drag him past that final threshold and bolt the door behind them. 

Moran was tipped ungracefully forward onto the carpet where he lay, groaning, and finally, _finally_ , Jim made himself be heard. It began as a low hiss. Sherlock could feel Jim's presence spreading through the space of the room, closer to Moran, whose head jerked away. He must have realized even in his stupor that something wasn't right. When Jim's voice solidified, it came out as a low hushing sound. 

"Shh. Go to sleep," Jim said softly. As though this killer of a man were little more than a child. 

Moran's eyes darted around the room before landing, unfixed, on Sherlock. He garbled out something through the scarf that might have been a 'fuck you'. 

Sherlock crouched down and watched Sebastian with a curious look. It had taken quite a bit for him to accept Jim as real, and that was with Jim living in him, pulling the thoughts out of his head and manifesting all sorts of physical effects. Sebastian was drugged, to boot, which meant he was more likely to try to pass everything off as substance-induced hallucinations or ill judgment. "No, I don't think so. And you're not going to be permitted to kill me, either. You're going to sit still and listen."

Sebastian was wearing himself out trying to wrench free of his bonds, and in so doing the drug was pulling him under. His breathing was heavy and laboured around the scarf, and his eyelids were lowering. The way his face began to slacken, some of the fierce lines fading, made the several bold scars stand out all the more. Like the beads of a weld, they twisted across his face as raised, marred flesh. 

This man had seen a lot of sun once, enough to draw deep lines around his eyes in a similar fashion, but it was interesting. The flaws made him come alive. Even as his head slumped to the floor, fighting to hold his glare until the very last second his eyelids shut. 

Sherlock heaved a sigh of relief. They weren't out of the fire yet by any means, but he didn't have to worry about the man slipping his bonds and trying to fight back. He waited a few moments, then crept closer and held his palm over Sebastian's nose. When he confirmed the man was breathing, he tested the pulse at his neck.

"...he's fine. He'll be out for a short while, though." Sherlock glanced around and lifted Moran up by his shoulders. He dragged him over to one wall and propped him up in the corner. The gunman wasn't in danger of overdosing and choking, but laying for too long on bindings could cut off circulation and inflict permanent nerve damage.

_"He'll still be lethargic when he wakes. We'll have at least an hour to wait for his mind to clear whether he's awake or not. I suggest you truss him up in something a little sturdier while he's out. And get his feet. There's extra rope and a pair of cuffs in his duffel bag in the bedroom."_ Jim must have had a look through the flat. 

All had gone well so far. They couldn't risk screwing it up by losing Sebastian halfway through the plan. He might have been outnumbered, technically, but if Sebastian got free with a level enough head, he could very well turn the tables on them. 

Sherlock followed Jim's suggestion and entered the bedroom. This room was equally sparse, though a small mattress was in one corner of the room. Makeshift and inflatable - the flat was empty in anticipation of being let, and Sebastian wouldn't have had time to find and drag a real mattress in undetected. A small duffel bag sat on the floor near the foot of the mattress, and Sherlock unzipped it.

Amidst Moran's weapons and other supplies, Sherlock managed to find the extra rope and cuffs that Jim had mentioned. He returned to the main room, spotted an old-fashioned radiator in one corner, and an idea settled into place. He dragged Moran over, cuffed his rope bindings to the radiator, and set about tying up his feet. 

After that, there was nothing else to do but wait.

And wait they did. It took Moran nearly a full hour to regain consciousness, and possibly it was Jim who was keeping him subtly under. Jim seemed determined to be the first thing he saw when the drugs wore off, even if he was in Sherlock's body. An hour wasn't the best amount of time to come down from that kind of high, but when Moran's icy eyes began to flutter groggily, Jim decided it would have to do. 

Sherlock felt the ghost's presence coalesce under his skin, gathering into him. Jim would have to reach down deep inside Sherlock, just like last time, but at least this time gave him some warning. _"Ready?"_ Jim asked. 

Sherlock's heartbeat immediately picked up, thudding heavily in his chest. He wasn't certain he was ready to repeat the bizarre experience of watching from the back of his own head, numb while his own limbs moved in accordance with another's will. Certainly not with the added danger of Moran in the room. And none of that mattered; he _had_ to be ready. He had to relax and trust Jim to take care of this, because if he panicked and fought for control, Moran would overpower them, and not to a desirable end.

"...ready," Sherlock whispered. No sooner had the lie fallen off his tongue than he felt himself get pulled back, shoved into a darker, distance space in his own head. He could still see and hear, but it was as if his senses were subjected to a time delay and a degree of fading. The sensation he'd begun to recognize as Jim expanded from a feeling of warmth under his skin to fill... everything. Sherlock watched his body tense and shift while Jim molded himself inside Sherlock's skin.

When it was all over, Sherlock felt his own mouth, from a distance, open with a sigh. He felt his head tip back, roll his neck, hunch and stretch his shoulders, and when his eyes fell on Moran, not by his own will, he saw that Moran was staring at him with far more lucidly than he had been before. And with even more contempt. 

Jim hiked up Sherlock's trouser legs and brought his body into a crouch in front of the bound man. It was a bit of a balancing act, Sherlock's tall frame compacted onto the balls of his feet, but Jim managed it well enough. The muscles in his face softened and his features contorted into something more befitting of Jim's easy intensity and knowing smile. 

"Good morning, Sebastian," Jim lilted in Sherlock's voice. 

Moran bared his teeth. His entire body tensed under the rope. If he sensed something was off about Sherlock, and it looked like he did, it was purely on an instinctual level. One that had been intimately familiar with Moriarty. 

Sherlock couldn't concentrate on his breathing to calm himself. Even his heart wasn't really his own right now. He tried his best to relax and just float, pretending that this was all a dream. A vivid dream, but a harmless one. Not like his recent dreams, where even a slight scratch translated into the waking realm.

Sebastian wanted to kill him even more now. Of that, there was little doubt. Nor of the fact that he was more than capable. From the callouses on his hands, Sherlock guessed that he was even capable of prolonging the actual end, stretching pain out over a great duration of time. Those hands had held more than just guns.

"Sherlock fucking Holmes, you must have a death wish," Moran spat. 

And in spite of all that danger, Jim leapt forward. His hands, Sherlock's hands, grabbed Moran by the hair just as the man jerked to catch him, possibly bite him, only narrowly missing. "Ah ah ahh- Try again," Jim snarled back, Sherlock's voice sounding so very unlike Sherlock. He wrenched Moran's head back, not a very easy thing to do even in his current state, but Jim was not delicate about it. He got right up close, shifting his body perfectly within Moran's range of motion were he free, uncaring for his own safety, as though Jim meant to either tempt him or intimidate him. He looked into Moran's eyes and smiled wide. 

" _Bullshit,_ " Moran snarled back, trying to wrench his head away. Jim smacked him for the trouble, a backhand across the face and one that he didn't pull, uncaring as to whether he hurt Sherlock's body in the process. It happened so fast Jim's hands were back twisted in Moran's hair before his head could right itself. 

Sherlock wasn't immune. Even partially detached from his body and slightly numb, he felt the sting on his hand and had to repress the urge to yank the limb back. He was surprised Jim didn't feel it. Or perhaps this was yet another time that he pushed himself past pain, refused to acknowledge it. That feat had always simultaneously awed and scared Sherlock whenever he'd witnessed it.

Sherlock couldn't endure pain like that. Close as Jim was taking him to Sebastian, if the gunman actually managed to inflict damage on him, it was Sherlock was that going to be suffering later.

And Jim wasn't focused on him right then. If he'd heard Sherlock's thoughts, he didn't acknowledge them. Jim was too busy letting his personality, bright and horrid and quite frankly sickening, shine through. "Then let me convince you." Sherlock's hand stroked down the side of Moran's face, catching on the sharp little hairs at his temples and the side of his jaw. And his scars. "I have all the time in the world to do it," Jim turned Sherlock's voice soft. "Well, as far as you're concerned, I do. Now what do you think is the simplest way to convince you that I am in fact Jim Moriarty? Hm? I can imagine you have a few very unpleasant ideas." And it began to sound questionable whether Jim was threatening to convince Moran or torture him. 

" _Shut up._ You're not him." Moran tried to wrench his head away again, even though it only wrenched his hair tight and made his eyes wince. He'd seen Jim's work, been attacked in ways he couldn't explain, and still Sebastian refused to listen. 

Jim's grip tightened, straining the muscles in Sherlock's arms, and he bent down so close that he and Moran were nearly sharing the same air. "Yes. I am," Jim whispered. Sherlock's mouth curled and he said softly, so softly it was almost like he could have keep it secret from even Sherlock's consciousness in the back of his head, "Perhaps I need to bring up Taiwan for you to believe me?"

Moran's eyes narrowed. 

Sherlock could feel some of Jim's thoughts like this. Not enough to read them, not to the degree Jim had when settled at the back of his mind, but enough for him to get a sense. A separate coil of tension ran through him. He'd known Jim was capable of horrors, having dealt with the messy leftovers of some of his schemes, but Sebastian was also someone who'd ostensibly meant something to Jim. Someone he'd slept with more than once, from all Sherlock had been able to deduce.

And Jim had easily considered torture, from what Sherlock had been able to feel. Gentle as Jim had been with him, Sherlock wondered how immune he was to such things. Or if Jim would get bored one day and decide to toy with him in that way.

Sherlock didn't have time to think about it. Jim had gotten too close to Sebastian and angry blue eyes were all Sherlock could see.

Jim's smile never faltered. He tilted his head, and Sebastian had to be unnerved with Sherlock's face coming so close to his ear. Sherlock could see it in the tendons tightening in Moran's neck. "When you got haughty with me for ruining all your fun for my own, dragging you down to beach after beach, brothel after brothel... Until I stuck a candy bar down your pocket and told you to go have a little fun yourself. And ohhh you didn't like that," Jim laughed softly. They were so close it was suffocating. "Not at first, anyway...but oh how you came around in the end." 

"Shut up!" Sebastian shouted, tense all over. His face was burning red. A sensitive subject, perhaps. He talked quickly, shaking his head. "You're good, Holmes," and he took a shaky breath, like he had to convince himself, "but you're not hi-" Jim wrenched him back by the hair, cutting him off. 

"I made you eat crow that night," Jim hissed, "and you looked up to me and you knew _exactly_ what I wanted you to say. You said 'thank you, Jim'. And you've never been quite the same since, have you?" 

Moran's eyes screwed shut. In spite of everything, this was getting to him. 

Sherlock watched in fascination. Jim's words were carefully chosen - enough that he could make guesses about what had transpired in Taiwan and what was being referred to, but not really know for certain. More interesting still was how Moran's body language had changed. His tension had shifted from trying to move forward, out of the bonds and toward Sherlock, to _away_. Away from him, away from the memories, to steep himself in denial and come back burning with anger. He couldn't let himself believe Jim was speaking to him, because that would bring a hope that would crush him anew when it proved false.

Jim made Sherlock's head chase Sebastian when he retreated. His grip loosened just enough for Sebastian to do so. Jim was testing his limits and Sebastian wasn't lashing out at him. Yet. 

"How about prison?" Jim whispered, not relenting. "A dishonorable discharge and a life sentence. So unfortunate for a man like you, and already filled with such anger. How many times did I visit you? Ten? Twelve? Before you came around enough for me to take a chance on you, and oh how that prison burned. And it was a chance I was taking. All that work for you. But do you remember what you said to me then? Hm?" 

Moran opened his eyes and looked at Jim, and Sherlock could see it in his face, in the way his anger began to fracture - he was losing the battle. 

"You said 'thank you, Jim'," Jim whispered through Sherlock's voice, but so much lighter. "And do you know what you'll say when I came back from the dead to pluck you out of this miserable existence you've lowered yourself into?" Jim tilted Sherlock's head back, looking down his nose at Moran, expression tainted with a hint of disgust. "You'll say 'thank you, Jim'." 

The manipulation was masterful. He had mind games down to an art form, and Sherlock couldn't help but wonder how much of the recent days might have been the culmination of just that: Jim figuring out Sherlock's fracture points and how much he could bear, then exerting deliberate pressure in waves until he bent into the desired shape without completely shattering. Part of him went cold, and this time it wasn't from Jim draining the heat energy from his body.

He was trusting Jim. 

Trusting him to turn Moran's mind away from slaughtering him or forcing physicality on him. Trusting Jim, too, with everything they'd done in their minds thus far. Sherlock hadn't thought Jim's expressions and emotions were faked lately - particularly not at the pool, not when he'd been so conflicted about letting emotion show - and Sherlock still thought it was real. But seeds of doubt were planted. How was he to tell when such a liar was finally telling the truth?

He could see the seeds of doubt sprouting in Moran's mind. It was in the stillness of his body and the terrible, dawning hope seeping into his eyes. He didn't want to believe it. Moran didn't want to have that kind of hope. " _How?_ " he rasped, voice suddenly gone, brows knotting. He looked like his world was tilting. 

"I died," Jim confirmed. "And then I came back.” One hand eased itself from Sebastian's hair. Jim let Sherlock’s thumb trace down the line of Sebastian's temple. And then he was leaning in, bearing down on Sebastian, forcing Sherlock's teeth to catch his lip before he brought their mouths together. And Sherlock could feel it then, the way Moran's body crumpled, the way his breathe heaved, the way he recognized Moriarty instantly. He believed it. 

Sherlock tried to suppress his unease and suspicion and stay relaxed, stay floating and detached where he'd been displaced. That was proving even more difficult than he thought it would be. Moran was no longer interested in murdering him, but it would only be a short time before the man's shock wore off and turned to something else. Emotional and physical need, most likely; Sebastian's emotional intensity was even greater than Sherlock had expected, and he'd just gone for a few years thinking Jim was dead only to have him drop himself quite literally back in his lap.

Sherlock also didn't know what to make of the kiss. Jim was controlling everything, but they were both feeling it. Sebastian's mouth was very different than Jim's - firmer, scratchy with the surrounding stubble, and a faint scent of alcohol and cigarettes. _"Jim, not too much."_ Sherlock was uncomfortable kissing a practical stranger who'd been set on assassinating him only a few minutes before.

Jim didn't listen until Moran was gasping. When he finally did pull back, Sebastian followed, coming up short at the end of his rope like he'd forgotten he was tied at all. Jim twisted the hand in his hair and made blue eyes wince. 

" _Jim._ " Sebastian didn't seem capable of saying anything more, and Sherlock could tell from the resonating surge of gratification rising in his own chest, from Jim's end, that he knew he had Moran at last. "You're..." Sebastian tried again, but Jim cut him off. 

"Borrowing Sherlock? Yes. He's still in here with me." Jim smiled. "He says hello." Sherlock had done nothing of the sort. Sebastian's face grew pinched with a flash of insolence, but Jim interrupted again. "I suggest you refrain from taking out your anger on this body, however, as it currently is the only one I have." 

Sebastian swallowed. 

Sherlock felt an echoing jolt of anger. He'd done nothing to Jim, hadn't touched the man or killed him, and Moran still wanted to punish him. For existing. Possibly even for unwittingly becoming Jim's vessel. And Jim wanted to take this man back to the flat with them. Sherlock was no longer certain that was a good idea. _"Right. Well. You've manipulated your lovesick pet monster back into obeisance and obedience again. Congratulations. Now you have two pets on leashes. Time to bring this one back to the kennel to join the first, I imagine."_ Sherlock didn't bother hiding the bitter tone of his thoughts. He _couldn't_.

Jim's eye twitched. He wasn't responding. He was doing his very best to ignore Sherlock, even as agitated as Sherlock was. That either meant he didn't care and intended to keep control for as long as he could, or that he still felt tentative about Moran. Jim drew Sherlock's thumb down Sebastian's temple again. Intimate, but not necessarily sexual, and just like that he had taken Sebastian's attention off Sherlock. "I'm taking you back to the flat, Sherlock's flat. You'll stay there until we clean up the mess you've made." 

Jim said this like there was no room for discussion. Like he and Sherlock hadn't feared what could happen, one way or another, the moment Jim unbound Moran's wrists. 

Moran didn't look very sure about the plan, but Jim spoke again, "When I let you go, you work for me again, do you understand?" and Sebastian nodded his head. 

Sherlock watched his own hands go for Sebastian's bonds and instantly Sherlock was tense again. The desire to move away was overwhelming, and even without trying, Sherlock saw his hands fumble with the knot. Sherlock clamped down on himself, closed his eyes, tried to make himself smaller in the back of his mind so he didn't have to see, but that only helped so much. He could still feel and hear, even in the darkness. Rope slid through his fingers while Jim undid the knots, and they were close enough that Sherlock could feel breathe on his skin. 

"Calm down, Sherlock," Jim paused to say under his breath. Sebastian heard, but Jim made it clear he was speaking inward. Sebastian shifted like he was ready to crowd the body Jim was in as soon as he was free, like he could protect Jim from Sherlock. Jim ignored it completely. "Seb isn't going to hurt you. Or do anything else 'untoward' to your body." 

"Like hell I'm not," and from the slight breathlessness in his voice it sounded a lot like Sebastian expected Jim to agree with him. Like he did in fact want to grab Jim, whether he wore Sherlock's face or not, and take him down on the floor with emotions running so high. After three years of believing he was dead. 

Jim's head snapped up, squaring Sherlock's gaze against Sebastian. "No, you're not." He spoke with finality as he slipped away the last of Sebastian's rope. 

Sebastian's words had sent an ice-cold chill through Sherlock. He hadn't lied to Lestrade when he'd painted a picture of being assaulted, but that had been tame compared to what he imagined Sebastian would try with him. Jim had been a familiar face and, while it had been traumatic to have his boundaries pushed in that way, Jim hadn't pushed nearly as far as he had wanted to go. He hadn't just taken and been done with it. Jim didn't always respect boundaries in the way Sherlock wanted, but he did respect them with him to a certain degree, and there were lines he hadn't crossed.

Sherlock didn't believe Sebastian had any respect for boundary lines. He wanted Jim, and while Sherlock couldn't blame him for his emotional reaction, he wasn't willing to let the man violate him just so Sebastian could have a catharsis and closure. Sebastian's body language and the roughness in his voice only set Sherlock even more on edge. _"Get him away from me."_

Sherlock's body pitched unsteadily. Jim had barely enough time to fling his arms out and catch his balance while Sebastian looked on in surprise. He took a step forward and Sherlock's hand shot up, catching flat against his chest. 

That had been Jim's doing. And Sebastian seemed to realize that, even if his fists clenched and he looked about ready to grab Jim if Sherlock took over, even if he didn't know what to do. 

"You two are going to get along," Jim hissed. 

He might as well have slapped Sebastian. "You _died_ because of _him_ ," he nearly shouted.

"He died because he decided to kill himself!" Sherlock overrode Jim's control for a moment, just enough for him to speak. He evidently wasn't reining in his emotions as well as he should have. Sherlock's body was still shaky, his balance slightly off while his nervous system tried to cope with conflicting signals from two different minds. It was a weakness Sherlock knew they shouldn't be exhibiting in front of Sebastian.

Jim didn't like it either. The snarl that broke out of Sherlock's mouth in the next instant said as much. Jim caught his hands in midair, every muscle tight, feeling for control. 

Sebastian had gotten even closer. One more indication that Sherlock had taken over and his hands would have probably been around Sherlock's neck. Which didn't put Sherlock at ease, but Jim didn't like it either, and he shoved at Sebastian's chest, throwing the man back a few steps. "Back off!" 

Fortunately for them both, Sebastian seemed to realize it was Jim. 

Jim rolled Sherlock's shoulders and straightened himself, turning his attention inward. "You're not helping." Sebastian swore under his breath, still somewhat in disbelief. "Shut up," Jim snapped. "The two of you are going to get along or I will make your lives a living hell. If you even have lives when I'm through with you." His eyes flashed to Sebastian at the last and the tall man shifted uneasily. 

_"More of a hell than it already is?"_ Sherlock was still afraid, still full of suspicion, but now there was an edge of anger. He didn't like any of this, particularly the fact that he'd been forced into this confrontation in the first place. Jim's threat only made things worse. _"Or are you going to go back to trying to stop my heart? Or pissing off random people until they're motivated to kill me. I suppose you don't have to try very hard with him, do you? Even knowing you're riding around in my skin, he still wants to snap my neck."_

"Jim," Sebastian stepped forward again, but there was concern in his voice. Sherlock's body had bent and his eyes had been darting all around. He probably looked crazy as Jim forgot about the world around him, but the moment Sebastian's tight grip came in contact with his arm, Jim snapped up. 

"You're not going to hurt me, are you Seb?" And Jim splayed Sherlock's arms out wide, trembling slightly as they went, baring himself to Sebastian who was a little taken aback. 

"No," was the whispered answer. 

"Neither am I," Jim said aloud, and Sherlock could tell it was directed at him. 

But Sebastian wasn't done. "I was ready to die for you." He tried to make it as toneless as possible, but there was anguish in his voice. 

"That's sweet of you." Jim's was...nearly unaffected. Nearly, because Sherlock could detect the slightest mirth in his tone. "But now you can live to kill for me."

Sherlock was silent. He'd pulled back into the space he was in, as far as his mind could get from Sebastian... and from Jim. He started to feel slightly numb, but Sherlock supposed that was for the best if Sebastian kept touching him. He didn't want to feel it, even if it seemed that Jim had managed to derail the man from thoughts of revenge or a lustful reunion.

Sherlock felt movement, like a hand was reaching back to find him. Jim's hand. His lip curled and he tried to press himself further back into the dark. There was an unseen wall he couldn't get past, but he could hope that if he was quiet and still, Jim wouldn't find him in the blackness. He wasn't in the mood to be touched. He wasn't in the mood for company, either, but he had no choice in that.

_"Sherlock..."_ Jim's voice, distinctly Jim's voice, whispered through the dark. If Sherlock had been paying attention to what his body was doing, he would have found it had stilled, Jim putting his mind to focus. _"Don't be angry with me."_ The presence slipped closer. Jim was going to find him. But it was gentle. It moved slowly. _"I only need you to calm down."_ Jim was so close. His presence brushed up against Sherlock, not warm or cold, but simply there. 

_"Calm down,"_ Sherlock repeated. He wasn't happy that he'd been found. Wasn't happy that he never had anywhere to retreat to. Jim was always there, always could reach him, could even replay his memories to see everything that had transpired when he wasn't there, whether in the distant or recent past. _"You play him like an instrument, and look at how he quivers. The right words, the right manipulations and he does whatever you want him to do. Perhaps he doesn't even know it's a lie. I certainly didn't."_

_"You think I'm lying to you? Honestly?"_ Jim did not sound upset, but he did sound serious. Jim's presence settled into the space beside him, like they were back to back. Unseeing, only feeling. _"When I told you what I'd done for you. When I told you how we were the same and I believed in you. Do you **really** think I was lying?"_ Jim waited before he went on. _"Sebastian knows, Sherlock. Or did you think he was blind to my manipulations? He's not a complete fool. But do you see? That's how it works, that's why it works. He chooses to feel."_ Even knowing Jim would never return that depth of feeling. If Jim could be himself around Sebastian, passionate yet uncaring, then Jim could allow Sebastian to be with him regularly. There would have been no act to keep up. 

Except...except that Jim did come back for Sebastian. It benefited him, yes. Somewhat. But he could have just as easily had Sebastian caught or killed. If there were another reason, would Jim admit to it?

_"You feel something for me, certainly. Enough to drive you to extremes."_ Sherlock sighed. Extremes didn't necessarily mean what he was meant to interpret them as. He could simply be a favorite pet, a favored plaything. One that was desired enough that tantrums were thrown when it looked like he might be out of reach or broken. _"You manipulate others so easily, almost thoughtlessly. I don't know what I can believe, with you. I started doubting it was manipulation for a short time, because I didn't think you could fake absolutely everything. Not that convincingly. But you're stringing your pet assassin along. And he realizes it, by now, but it's too late for him to remove the hooks, and all I draw is parallels."_

Sherlock could vaguely feel his face cringe. Jim's doing. Something he said must have stung. _"The greatest manipulators are those who tell the truth."_

Jim straightened. Sherlock could feel his 'touch' receding. Sebastian had been speaking while neither had been paying attention, probably something about Jim's stability, but Jim was suddenly back in control and waving off his hand. "Pack up your things," Jim said to Sebastian, "Make it look like you were never here. We're going back to the flat."

Sherlock watched from a distance as Sebastian obeyed. If the man wondered about the way Jim hadn't seemed to be listening to him, he knew better than to comment about it. Jim had given an order, and Sebastian was trained to obey. Most likely he wanted to obey, as complying was a subtle confirmation of sorts: Jim wasn't dead, Jim was back, and some amount of past normalcy was going to return. 

Sherlock supposed that was comforting, but it was bitter on his end. His normalcy was never going to return. At least Jim wasn't crowding him and insisting on touching, or on addressing Sherlock's change in attitude right then.

Thankfully Sebastian didn't have too much to pack. He deflated the mattress and took up the small amount of cutlery he'd been using in the kitchen, and all of it went into a pack over his shoulder beside the duffel of weapons. Jim leaned Sherlock's lanky frame up against the wall while they waited, and Sherlock could tell he was getting tired. He would have to release his hold soon, but Jim seemed determined to at least make it back to the flat. 

"Let's go," Sebastian said when he was finished, and Jim turned on his heel to sweep out of the room. He was going on about the cameras, about how they would have to take the same route back and find a cab as quickly as possible, how Sebastian would have to follow him back into the Baker Street flat with care, but Sebastian wouldn't stop looking at him. Jim seemed not to notice the depth of barely restrained pain residing in his features. 

Sherlock, however, didn't miss it. Even trying to avoid absorbing his current situation, trying to ignore what was going on around his body, Sherlock noticed the look. He could sympathize, to a certain degree; pain had become a more prevalent feature in his life when he'd ignored Mycroft's advice and let himself care about people. 

Jim's exhaustion posed another problem. Even if he could hold onto control until they safely got Sebastian back into the flat, he wouldn't be able to retain it past that. Sherlock had no idea what he was supposed to do with the man. Sebastian's desire to hurt him was curbed at the moment, but he had no certainty that it would stay that way. At worst, he might be in for a non-lethal fight. At best, the flat was quickly going to become painfully awkward.

Once they were out of the building, Sebastian proved just as adept at spotting and avoiding CCTV locations as Jim, which was probably the only way he'd survived thus far. They found a cab quickly enough and silence fell between them. It was a comfortable silence for the most part, even though it shouldn't have been. It was familiar. Sherlock got the distinct impression Moriarty and Sebastian often operated in silence. Sebastian's glances, however, never ceased. Jim had to be aware of them, even though he gave no indication. 

They exited several streets away, taking the looping path back Sherlock had first indicated to avoid both the public CCTV and Mycroft's additional security feeds. 

Sherlock waited in silence at the back of his own mind. Jim had to have felt him there, along with his emotions, but he was leaving him alone for the moment. Most likely he didn't have the energy to divert attention to him and keep his hold on Sherlock's body. Sherlock could feel Jim's exhaustion growing - he wasn't moving as quickly and smoothly as he had been.

That solved one question, Sherlock supposed. He didn't need to worry about Jim permanently walling him away and stealing his body. He was incapable of controlling him like that for long periods of time.

Following a series of scaling adventures, they reached the rooftop. The window was still propped slightly open and after a few short minutes later they were safely back inside the spare bedroom.

At which point Sherlock's body sunk slowly to his knees. 

Sebastian reacted immediately, bags dropped to the floor and sturdy arm suddenly around Sherlock's waist, Jim's name on his tongue. Jim went silent and Sherlock's eyes rolled up in the back of his head. Sherlock's consciousness thrust forward as Jim's slipped away. 

Sebastian's free hand was at his temple, his forehead, his pulse, under his nose, making sure he was breathing, making sure his heart was still beating. The man was calling Jim's name when Sherlock snapped back into control. He went tense under Sebastian's hands. Jim was no longer there even to offer advice should something go awry; he'd slipped away into whatever space he went to when he'd run himself dry, like he had before.

Which left Sherlock in the arms of a trained killer who hated him. Sherlock's mouth felt dry and he licked his lips, his eyes slowly opening. "...he's resting. Let me go." Hopefully Sebastian took that to mean that Jim was merely tired but still present, rather than somewhere else and unconscious.

The blond’s head pulled back, wide eyed, surprised to find Sherlock when he'd expected Jim. It was almost funny how he could tell the difference now, in so small a gesture. Slowly, Sebastian let Sherlock go, as if he was not sure what to make of the change. When his arm slipped free of Sherlock's waist, Sherlock slumped forward a little, but he could straighten himself now. Sebastian stepped back, putting a decent amount of space between them again, and Jim was completely silent. 

So was Sebastian. His gaze, however, spoke volumes. Wary, closed off, probably not sure what to expect from Sherlock. Just as Sherlock was not sure what to expect from him. This had been Jim's plan, and neither knew what to make of the other now that he was gone. 

Sherlock levered himself upright, watching Sebastian closely while he got to his feet. He still didn't know much about the man that he hadn't deduced earlier. John had also been ex-military, well-educated, and skilled with guns, but where John was nurturing, Sebastian was certainly the opposite. John had been invited to live here and had kept himself occupied with his own interests when Sherlock wanted space. Sebastian was here because Jim wanted him to be, but Sherlock had no idea how to make this arrangement livable.

The two men stared at one another. Sherlock finally spoke. "...this is the only spare room I have, which means you'll be staying here," he began. "...I'm not about to attack you unless you're about to attack me. I don't know what Jim wants with you, but if we're stuck with this, we might as well make the best of it."

Sherlock paused. He'd made tea for Jim before, when he knew the man had been a dangerous enemy and tried to kill him. It would hardly be more surreal to offer hospitality to another criminal, particularly if he was now a... flatmate. "...perhaps this conversation would be better served downstairs."

Sebastian stared at him several moments longer and then kicked the duffel back into reach. He bent without taking his eyes off Sherlock and took out a handgun which he promptly slipped into the back of his trousers before rising again. The message was clear; he did not trust Sherlock either. Whether he would be willing to use that gun was questionable, considering Jim now shared Sherlock's body, but it was a bold statement nonetheless. Sebastian waited for Sherlock to lead the way, obstinately giving off the impression that Sherlock's conversation was going to be very one sided. 

Sherlock didn't appreciate the threat. The situation was considerably one-sided to begin with; Sebastian was of equal height, but had far greater mass and sheer strength. Sherlock was highly proficient at judo, but there was only so much that training and strategy could do to even the score, and that counted on Sebastian not having equal amounts of training, which was unlikely. One good blow, one mistake, and the other man would overpower him.

Sherlock led Sebastian down the stairs and into the kitchen. The table had been cleared of experiments for once. He filled the kettle and felt a little silly. Sebastian's eyes bored a hole between his shoulder blades. "...I'm going to need information if we're going to figure out how to make this work."

Sebastian's silence was not helping. And neither was Jim's. If Jim proved to be the only one who could get him to talk, this was going to be difficult. Sherlock could see from the slight strain of muscle in his upper arms that Sebastian was tense, but he could also see in the stain of grease on his shirt and the small ash mark on his sleeve that Sebastian both smoked and wasn't bothering to wash his clothes as often as he should, no doubt from being on the run, but he was also barely getting enough to eat. No man of Sebastian's stature lived on beans alone. If he left the country, he would likely be just fine, but while he remained, he would be to a great extent dependent on Sherlock. Sebastian was no doubt aware of this, and still he refused to indulge Sherlock with a civil response. 

Sherlock set the tea to steep and assembled the rest of his peace offering in silence. Sebastian made him deeply, deeply uneasy in a way Sherlock couldn't remember feeling about another living person in a long time. Facing down murderers was exciting. Having them live with him when they could decide to off him in his sleep was less fine. Even worse when they desperately wanted to do things to him because of the other person sharing his body.

Sherlock kept glancing at Sebastian as he moved about the kitchen. The other man leaned forebodingly against the wall, watching without comment. Sherlock set toast, jam, and the finished tea on the table, stared back, and slowly took a seat.

The man watched Sherlock breathe, take a piece of toast, shift his plate, pick up the butter knife... It was almost a show of dominance as much as it was a show of wariness. Their truce was tentative, but Sebastian had the upper hand here if only just, and he was making Sherlock perform the ritual of civility without him. 

Eventually, he pushed off the wall in one fluid motion, slow enough not to alarm Sherlock, but with a particular sort of grace that told Sherlock he was very aware of his body and the space around them. Sebastian had the controlled movements of a dancer as he pulled back the second chair and lowered himself into it. He took a piece of toast and without moving his eyes away from Sherlock, began to spread jam over it. 

Some pieces began to slide into place. Jim had referenced catching tigers in regards to this man before, and apparently there was more to it just the cliched figure of speech. Sebastian's scars weren't the neat lines of old knife wounds, but the ragged edges of a sort left behind from animal claws. Coupled with a predatory grace, Sherlock could see the comparison. He was making a show of it, but this predator was hungry and neglected, having spent everything on a hunt only to be thwarted by his targeted prey.

Sherlock stilled for a moment as he considered what words to extend that wouldn't result in a limb getting bit off. "...he calls you tiger, doesn't he?"

Sebastian bristled still, but Sherlock could see the flush of colour spread under his skin. The deduction was accurate. And judging by Sebastian's reaction, it was a very personal nickname. Probably one Jim didn't use often, or in front of others. Something....intimate, and Sebastian looked deeply uncomfortable with Sherlock knowing. 

"I went after one down a sewer. Nearly took my head off." Or gutted him, as hinted by a tendril of one long scar running under the collar of Sebastian’s shirt, downward. Sebastian's declaration was, surprisingly, not a boast. He could have easily turned it into one, and he was a man who gave off the impression that he was not normally so humble about his strength or achievements. Perhaps his wariness tempered his tongue. 

"I had wondered," Sherlock kept his voice even. Sebastian was likely used to people speculating about the source of his scars. Sherlock filed away the information, and the reaction the nickname had gotten. Part of him felt even more uncomfortable with the reminder that Jim _had_ been intimate with this man, regardless of how interested he was in Sherlock now.

Sherlock toyed with his tea mug. He tried to think about what he might have felt in a similar situation, but the closest he could come up with was the personal difficulties he and John had had after Sherlock had returned from the illusion of the grave. John had struggled with feelings of betrayal and abandonment and it had taken some time for Sherlock to understand his friend's moods and reasoning. "Things have been... difficult, these past few days. For what it's worth, he insisted we come after you as soon as the situation stabilized between us a bit. He wanted you alive and here."

Sebastian's eyes only narrowed. He did not look comforted. In fact, he looked rather a lot like he'd been slapped. Clearly he expected no olive branches from Sherlock, nor pity. His hand stilled on his second piece of toast and for a minute it seemed he might go mute again, but then he spoke. "Better to have an ally, even in death." The toast was gone in two more crunching bites and Sebastian sipped heavily on his tea, no longer hesitant about eating Sherlock's food. His words suggested the truth, that Jim and Sherlock were not on perfectly good terms, that the truce even they shared was tentative. 

"You're not here to reinforce our arrangement," Sherlock retorted. As if Sebastian was needed. If Jim changed his mind and decided he wanted Sherlock dead, all he had to do was repeat his earlier attempt to stop his heart. Or wait until Sherlock was asleep and murder him in the dream realm. "The first thing Jim tried to do when he started gaining more control was kill me. Again. And himself by extension. He tried running my mouth to get you to shoot me, and when that failed, tried more direct methods. I've convinced him not to go forward with that plan, and we have a truce for the moment, but Jim didn't request your presence because he feels he needs backup to force me into anything."

Sebastian stilled. Slowly he set down his mug of tea. His face had gone blank...except for a slight pull of the muscle between his brows, a twitch he couldn't stop though he was clearly fighting it. Something Sherlock said had affected him. Something.... Jim had tried to kill himself, again. Jim still wanted to die. Sebastian didn't care why he was there, to enforce Sherlock's cooperation or not, he'd been broken when Jim blew his brains out on that rooftop. And now he'd learned that Jim still wanted oblivion. What Sherlock was seeing in his blankness was a man trying to hold himself together. 

"...how have you convinced him?" Sebastian finally asked. He looked like he had to fight the words out.

Sherlock was unable to stop the flush of color that crept into his features. His gaze settled on the steaming liquid in his mug. "...he made it clear that he'd tried to end it all before when everything became too much and he thought he'd never get what he wanted. And that that feeling still held. We... negotiated, and we're still in the middle of figuring things out." Particularly if Jim _had_ been lying and manipulating to try to lull Sherlock into letting him do more. Sherlock's voice became even quieter. "He stopped trying to kill me, and himself by extension, when I offered to try forming a relationship."

Sebastian's brows dropped. He stared, scrutinizing Sherlock with slight disbelief written across his face. Perhaps it was Sherlock's use of the word 'relationship'. Sebastian had to know of Jim's...steadfast infatuation with Sherlock. Even if just in hindsight, but that was unlikely. Jim had obsessed over Sherlock from the beginning, and he'd done so publicly from the moment they'd begun their little cat and mouse games. 

"How exactly do you mean?" Sebastian asked with slight raise of an eyebrow. He was aware Jim could take over Sherlock's body, had to be aware that while doing so, Jim could manipulate Sherlock's body into doing whatever he wanted it to do, or be done to it, but he had no idea they could share a dreamscape. 

"We're able to speak, mind to mind, while I'm awake. He's able to exert more influence when I fall asleep without draining his energy." Sherlock raised his mug to his lips and deliberated over his words. He was still uneasy with physicality, and confessing these things to Jim's former lover seemed awkward. Perhaps even cruel, given that Sebastian clearly held deep feelings regarding his boss. 

"Jim seems to gain energy from interaction there, and it can affect things in the waking realm. I'm still healing from a bite mark." The bite was the least explicit thing they'd done, but Sherlock still felt embarrassed to admit even this much.

Sebastian's steely blue eyes flashed to Sherlock's neck where there was indeed the slim corner of the bandage below his shirt collar. Sebastian hadn't thought to give it any significance during their scuffle, but he did now. Some of his confusion seemed to slip away. When Sherlock said relationship, he didn't necessarily mean Jim wanted a house and a white picket fence. In spite of the obvious intimacy between Sherlock and Jim, this knowledge looked like it eased Sebastian's mind. It was funny how, like most people, he was far easier to read than Jim was, even if he was far less talkative. 

Sebastian did, however, seem to have something on his mind, something that made him hesitant to ask and yet drew him in all the same. "Not that I wasn't aware of his...interest before the both of you supposedly died, but...why go to you? If he wanted me to believe him, he could have spoken to me like that. Would have made a more a believable case than showing up with your face."

"I don't know," Sherlock admitted. "We're tied together on some level. He can't go very far from my body without getting drained. Speaking with his own voice or throwing things also drains him very quickly, and he siphons energy off me whenever he gets too low. I thought I was going to die of hypothermia the first day, if he didn't just change his mind and try to stop my heart again."

Sebastian was still staring. Sherlock had always been told by others that his own pale eyes were unnerving, and he finally understood a bit of what they meant. 

"He can't take control for very long without getting tired, either. Fetching you and making certain you made it back stretched the limits of how long he could hold on. He left me briefly to check on you before, at a distance, which means that he isn't capable of speaking directly to your mind. How we did things today was the most energy efficient method we have."

Finally Sebastian sighed. He looked, for a moment, at a loss and far out of his element. "Ghosts." Sebastian swallowed. "If anyone ever told me I'd believe in _ghosts_..." Or that Jim of all people would be the one to do so, Sherlock didn't need to be told. It could have been a ploy just like Jim's little line of code had once been for Sherlock. Quantum computing aside, Jim had rigged the environment of the game to make it just as believable as Sebastian could have imagined Sherlock was doing now. And yet here he was, desperation possibly creating a reluctant belief. 

"I didn't believe it at first, either, and that was while he was attempting to yell at me and _then_ kill me," Sherlock added. "I'd thought you had released more than one virus into the public and I'd been infected by something that gave me chills and hallucinations. That was easier to process than the idea that I was possessed. Haunted. Whatever this qualifies as." Best not to add that he'd promptly tried to find ways to get rid of ghosts.

Sebastian looked down at his tea and then back at Sherlock like he was surprised they'd slipped into something that might resemble a conversation. It had been Jim that had done it, Jim who'd thrown both of their worlds off balance down to the very physics of the universe. Sebastian looked like he might have wanted to say more, if only in the most subtle way, but he sighed instead. He must have decided Sherlock wasn't much of a threat, and maybe some of his anger had dwindled in the face of everything else, because he suddenly looked very tired sitting there at Sherlock's kitchen table. 

Sherlock knew he didn't look much better. He still was harboring major suspicions about Jim's actions and true feelings, and now he had another source of stress sitting in his kitchen. One that was going to be living in John's old room. Sherlock couldn't help but feel resentful about that. It was empty, but it was John's. Even knowing that there was no chance the doctor was coming back, keeping it empty had been symbolic. The fact that Jim's partner in crime was going to occupy that space only reinforced just how much Jim had colonized his life.

Sherlock sighed. "I have no idea what the protocol for this situation is."

That seemed to break Sebastian out of his thoughts. He downed the rest of his tea in one swig and pushed it aside, then rose from the table. "Let me know when Jim is back. And wants to talk." 

With that, he took another quick glance around the flat before making his way back upstairs. Sherlock heard the door click shut, leaving him alone in the silent flat for once in a long and troubling while. The sun was beginning to set outside. His phone alerted him that he'd received a new check-in from John and still nothing from Lestrade. 

Sherlock repocketed his phone for the moment. He wanted to take advantage of his brief illusion of solitude. Small chores were done in silence - the dishes were put away, and new sheets were brought from the linen closet and tucked into place on his bed. Sherlock took a couple of pills for a headache that had surfaced and sprawled out atop his duvet.

He could hear footsteps upstairs, ever so faintly. Too heavy to be John. Sherlock sighed and reached for his phone, opening the text and sending his own reply back. _Fine. No new developments. Lestrade has been keeping me in the dark._

_"Did you lie to him this often when you two were working together?"_ came Jim's soft, almost sleepy tone. However faint it was, it was still impossible to miss coming from the back of Sherlock's own mind. Jim sounded lethargic, but content. It was questionable whether he'd even overheard Sherlock's conversation with Sebastian as Sherlock still hadn't determined whether Jim 'slept' while he was dormant. He could, however, just as easily hear the faint sounds of the other man as well as Sherlock could. 

"...yes," Sherlock softly admitted. Quite often it had been easier to keep John in the dark, both about cases and about himself. John had gotten more truth than others, for certain, but Sherlock had all too often woven lies or kept silent. Perhaps it had been more about keeping himself safe than for John's sake. 

"If I tell him more, he'll decide to visit, which will be awkward with your new invited flatmate. And anyway, he already has enough to worry about." Like his impending fatherhood. Making further repairs to his relationship with his wife. Sherlock was mostly out of sight and out of mind, and he knew that if he submitted to the temptation to demand John's attention on him again, it wouldn't end in a healthy place. His desire to be the center of his friend's world would be profoundly unfair to John.

Jim tutted softly, but Sherlock felt the hazy warmth of phantom arms wrap around him. It wasn't a very strong sensation, but it wasn't his mind playing tricks on him either. _"Come rest with me,"_ Jim whispered, and after the cold and the excitement of the day, his words were alluring. He meant to pull Sherlock into the dream world. If he was able. Sherlock would possibly have to join him there of his free will this time if Jim was too tired. 

Sherlock let the phone fall to his side. Joining Jim would mean more conflict, but refusing would just stretch the problem out while he mulled everything over. Alone. Sherlock's eyes closed. "We need to talk," he murmured, but he could feel himself drifting lower. He'd made his decision. Better to confront issues directly than to put them off and allow it to fester.

"Do we?" Sherlock heard Jim's soft voice before he saw him. Or rather, felt Jim's arms as they wrapped around his waist. There was a chin on his shoulder and Jim was pressed up behind him before he knew it. But Jim wasn't insistent. He was relaxed, merely melting into Sherlock. He knew Sherlock wasn't pleased, but that didn't stop him. As Jim solidified, so did his familiar mindscape of stars and galaxies. 

Sherlock didn't turn to look. He let them both drift for a minute, looking up at the night sky surrounding them and trying to put his thoughts together. "I don't know how to trust you. I don't know if I can. I thought everything you were showing me was truthful, recently... and now I'm not certain. I can't tell where your layers of mask end and you begin. I can't tell if I'm just another toy to you, if one that ranks higher than Sebastian."

Jim's fingers touched his cheek, tracing as they went. "I came back from the dead for you," Jim whispered, and Sherlock could feel his smile against the back of his neck. "What more proof do you need than that?" It sounded as trite as it did sincere on Jim's lips. Because Jim couldn't let anything go without tainting it. Jim could never be honest, even if he was being honest. Jim Moriarty believed honesty to be weakness and so in the past he’d thrown what Sherlock had suspected as the truth of his feelings like daggers. Now they were just fine little cuts, marring the whole of their brittle 'relationship'.

"Not that that's unimpressive," Sherlock responded. "But that doesn't prove that you care about me. If all of this isn't purely an accident, what it proves is your depth of obsession - that you were so fixated on me as a goal that your mind couldn't let me go and latched on even in death. You wanted a playmate to keep you company and relieve your boredom... for yourself. You wanted someone to fulfill your sexual needs and preferences, for yourself. I don't know that you're capable of considering the wants and needs of another person if it's not overwhelmingly to your benefit in some way. You can't even give me a straight answer right now."

"So sentimental," Jim sighed softly, notably not refuting Sherlock's claims. "That's what your brother called you, didn't he? But I'm not John Watson. I'll never run around caring after you the way he did," Jim whispered, unable to keep a trace of scorn from his voice. "Is that what you want? Would you rather have a fawning supporter than an equal? What would be proof enough of my 'caring'? Remember who I am when you ask this of me." Jim spoke almost directly into Sherlock's ear and didn’t otherwise move. 

"I don't know what would be proof enough." Jim's comments about John stung, even if they were true. John wasn't a match for his mind. He made up for that lack, instead, with his heart, his loyalty and fortitude and dogged optimism that had been a pillar of sunlight through the perpetual gloom of Sherlock's reality. "I don't know what would be enough to make me feel that I can trust you. The fact that you can't be honest with me is a major barrier. I don't want a pet, but I don't want the constant suspicions that I'm just one more plaything to you. I don't feel secure enough to give you anything more."

"You see Sebastian and you compare yourself to him. You shouldn't." Jim rested his head against Sherlock's, staring out at the stars. They began to shift. A great, purple galaxy drifted far away. At Jim's unvoiced command, it began to swirl. Other stars followed. Then whole constellations. Two smaller galaxies, one a milky green and the other a vibrant orange were sucked toward the display. Vast as it was, it must have been spinning at unimaginable velocity and yet from their vantage point it seemed as slow and fluid as Jim's own movements. It was, above all, beautiful. A performance of the cosmos, just for Sherlock. 

Beautiful, but it didn't move him. Sherlock was too focused on his own feelings to be so easily distracted. The desire to struggle out of Jim's grasp and push him away was overwhelming, as was the opposite impulse - to pull him crushingly close and refuse to let go. Sherlock's hands clenched. "I cannot help but compare the two of us. He's a means to an end and a particular sort of fulfilment. I simply satisfy other requirements that he lacks. More of them, certainly, but in the end you were willing to kill both him and I."

"And myself," Jim reminded him. "And isn't that the basis for any form of human companionship? 'A particular sort of fulfilment'? Is that not why all the little people of the world seek each other out and hope it lasts? Did you not keep John around because he gave you a particular sort of fulfilment? How could you ever have gotten along if he didn't? You cared for him, and you were perfectly willing to kill yourself. At least to his mind. Does that mean you didn't care?" Jim had stopped paying attention to the stars. His eyes were on the side of Sherlock's face while they began to spin wildly out of control. 

Sherlock had cared. He'd cared too much, in fact, and how poorly that had served him in the end. His efforts and sacrifices had ensured that John was still alive, and reasonably happy, but it hadn't secured his own happiness. If anything, John moving on had highlighted how empty his own existence had been and was again. "I wasn't willing to kill him. Die in his place, yes, but not execute him for failing to give me what I wanted."

"Well, granted, I had higher hopes for death than this," Jim mumbled into Sherlock's neck. Jim didn't see it the way Sherlock did. Jim had wanted death. He'd wanted to raze their world to the ground and then flicker out of existence. In that desire, he did not fear death, and he apparently saw little reason not to inflict such a fate on other living, thinking human beings. Just as he'd said the first time they met. 

It was what people did. People died. 

"We're fundamentally different in that way." One side of the struggle won out; Sherlock's hand reached up to cover Jim's hands and remove them. Instead of shoving the smaller man away, Sherlock turned and latched onto him. It reminded him, unwittingly, of the same way he used to cling to Redbeard - one emotion touchstone, one shield for pain, replaced with another, more sentient creature. More dangerous and unpredictable, as well, and without guaranteed loyalty. "I want to have hope."

"For what?" Jim asked even as his arms folded around Sherlock. It was a comforting gesture. For a small man, Moriarty knew how to wrap Sherlock in his arms fairly well. Sherlock could feel fingers in his hair and a palm on the back of his neck. Jim lifted his head and tucked Sherlock into him like it was something they did every day...or something he'd imagined, for a very long time. They were floating without purpose, and Jim was warm. Jim was regaining energy and it showed in the subtle ways he was able to provide comfort. 

Sherlock wasn't certain he could explain it. The feeling wasn't logical; life didn't have much purpose, when all was said and done. Life struggled to survive and create copies of itself before it died, and the cycle continued endlessly until something finally snuffed out the line. "Something more. To not have it all be pointless indulgences and staving off boredom and pain for as long as possible, for no particular reason. To not just have other presences occasionally in rooms with me, but at least one person who wants to be there because I am. Not because of what I can do for them, or because they want to make a study of my unusual properties. Someone who is there, and will stay, because they care and want to be there, regardless of whether I do anything to bribe them into staying."

Sherlock could feel Jim's head turning to look down at him. He'd sounded so horribly sentimental, Jim should have laughed, scoffed, tossed him away and let him fall to the farthest reaches of this empty space where they clung to one another. 

"You never grew up, did you?" was what Jim said instead. His hand brushing Sherlock's hair gently drew his head back to look at Jim, and Jim was smiling. It was a fond smile. It held no trace of mockery. Jim seemed, quite the contrary, rather enamoured with what Sherlock had said, even if he'd expressed doubt that he could be the one to provide that kind of stability for Sherlock. 

Sherlock stiffened and his features gained a sour edge. That had sounded a bit too much like Mycroft's accusations, the way he'd constantly treated Sherlock like a child. Coddled him. "...I'm not a child anymore," he muttered, but his voice was sullen. He was aware that other people viewed him as brattish, even grown. Jim's smile looked indulgent, in the same way one set kids at ease. Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

Jim’s smile only spread wider. "Sherlock," he began to whisper conspiratorially, "I like that about you. As much as I like your cruel streak; and I know you have one. As much as I like your calculated leaps of logic." Jim's smile wavered. Sherlock had been all of those things by the pool, and Jim had to be remembering it. Remembering their conversation while they watched their former selves begin the greatest game they'd ever played. Remembering the potential they'd lost, perhaps never to find again with any certainty. But Jim didn't say it aloud. 

Sherlock finally let his suspicion go, but not his wariness. He sighed. "I want to trust you." The rest went unspoken, but they both heard it; Sherlock didn't feel like he _could_ trust Jim. He'd been bitten by others so often that he was afraid to stretch a hand out, particularly to another who looked at him fondly but had proven so treacherous to other people.

Jim hummed, a noncommittal noise, but a thoughtful one. He lifted his head and glanced back at the stars, which finally stopped their oscillating disarray. "Well, that's alright." Jim brushed it off as casually as he brushed the hairs at the back of Sherlock's neck. "Maybe you'll come around someday. Or maybe you won't." Either way, Sherlock was stuck with Jim, unfortunate enough to be forced to get to know the spirit. Whether he trusted Jim or not held no weight over his presence. 

It did, however, hold weight over Sherlock’s responses and actions. He let Jim touch him, and he didn't let go, but neither did he look particularly happy or inclined doling out too much affection in return. Emotional coinage was precious, scarce tender at the moment. 

"...Sebastian wants to talk whenever it is we wake up. I don't know what I'm supposed to do with him if he won't talk to me, and you talking through me is too draining. Or dangerous." In terms of Sherlock's physical boundaries being preserved, at any rate.

"You'll just have to find a way to get along, then, won't you?" Jim tugged on Sherlock's shoulder, drawing him down to a better position against the nothing they floated upon. Jim curled up against Sherlock's side, uncaring that Sherlock was imitating a wooden board. Sherlock would be forced out of it soon enough. "I'm curious to know whether anything remains of the networks you took down, on the non-personnel side," Jim amended, knowing that Sherlock had done a very thorough job otherwise. "And he may prove useful to have on hand, besides."

"Helpful, yes, but also unpredictable in my case. Regardless of the fact that you've told him not to harm me, he's only doing as much because he now knows damaging me will damage the only body you can occupy. He's made it clear that he's not interested in a truce with me otherwise; he's just biding time until you have enough strength to take control again." All of this combined to make Sherlock feel even more crowded. Jim already gave him no privacy, and now he had another hostile body in the flat. "I tried to get him to talk, and to defuse his anger a bit. It seemed to make little difference."

"No! He didn't warm up to you at your first attempt?" Jim feigned surprise and ignored Sherlock's withering look. "I think..." Jim began evenly, "that the two of you over time will get used to each other. Perhaps even learn to get along." Jim looked far too hopeful. It was hard to tell if it was exaggerated or not. "Be patient, Sherlock. He may hate you now, but he won't forever. Especially not if I'm wearing your face." Jim's eyes were too big, too innocent to fit him. He ducked his head and curled into Sherlock's chest with a sigh, and Sherlock could almost feel the pull of energy in the way Jim stretched. 

A battery and a toy. A tool. That's what Sherlock felt like, and Jim's pretense at innocence wasn't winning him points in his favor. Things might have been different if Sherlock hadn't felt stressed and stretched so thin, but at the moment the other man's act wasn't endearing. Sherlock felt torn between pushing Jim away and pulling him close again, and finally decided on the latter. Warmth and company, for the moment, was better than floating in a cold void by himself, at least for the moment.

Jim nuzzled his cheek into Sherlock's collarbone. If he was picking up on Sherlock's emotions at all, he wasn't showing any sign of it. He seemed to be able to do that better when Sherlock was awake. How Jim had managed on his own those first years was a mystery. Or...possibly not. He'd been mad with rage and barely even self aware. It was possible that if he lost Sherlock again, his source of energy, he could revert to that state without fading away completely. ...and it was unlikely Jim would desire to test that theory. 

Sherlock stubbornly tried to hold onto his resolve and his sour mood. He was failing. He'd always had better luck at staying in a composed fury when interacting with people he didn't care about, which was most people. Anyone who'd gotten too close was a liability precisely because they had more leverage on him and a deeper reach, and Sherlock found it impossible to have interacted the way they had and be unmoved. He was still angry at Jim, but his body slowly became looser, more pliant, and finally curled around the smaller man. "...you're impossible," Sherlock grumbled under his breath.

Jim smiled and hummed. Sherlock could feel it. He could also feel Jim wiggle against him in ridiculous pleasure. Jim was content. He'd gotten what he'd wanted - Sebastian, Sherlock, Sherlock's continued existence, and his own energy replenished. Even if all of it was driving doubts into Sherlock's mind, Jim wouldn't stop. Jim had been right to contrast himself with John. They were nothing alike. John had been support, if begrudging support, at all times. Jim looked out for himself. But he had at least come a long way from trying to kill Sherlock. 

They rested in the dreamscape for what felt like hours. At times, Jim looked like he'd fallen asleep. His eyes would open periodically, and then close again, comfortable to lie in Sherlock's arms for as long as he wanted. 

Sherlock watched Jim for a while, amazed at just how youthful and innocent the man looked when he appeared unconscious, how delicate and completely unlike the dangerous personality lurking beneath. Sherlock wondered how many people had met their end from underestimating the man based on his looks, or his soft, lilting voice, or the frivolous quirks that showed through every now and then. He was willing to bet that such foolish mistakes had filled a good many graves.

Eventually Sherlock drifted off after Jim had stayed quiet and still for an uncertain amount of time. Jim drawing energy from him wasn't without cost, and Sherlock needed to recharge himself.

When Jim finally stirred, it was in a warm and sleepy haze. He stretched languidly over Sherlock's body, drawing Sherlock's attention to him and every twist of his lean muscle, what little of it there was, before Jim relaxed. He blinked up at Sherlock with warm eyes, not fully coherent. Or possibly, he was. Possibly, he knew exactly how he looked, as a moment later Sherlock could feel the dream slipping away from them. Jim was fading. He was sending Sherlock back to the real world.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock's eyes opened slowly. He didn't feel like he'd gotten enough sleep, but a quick check of the clock beside his bed said that he'd been out for a full eight hours. Or, at least, eight hours minus whatever energy had been siphoned from him by his supernatural parasite. Sherlock groaned and pressed his palms over his eyes. After a few minutes he resigned himself to the fact that he had to get up at least temporarily - just long enough to a trip to the loo. Drinking tea before going to sleep hadn't been a wise course of action.

The flat was dark when he opened the door, just as it usually was in the early hours of the morning, and yet Sebastian's unseen and unheard presence in the room above gave the quiet a notably unsettling edge. Particularly so when Sherlock stepped out into the hall and caught sight of a dark silhouette in John's old armchair, staring out the window. 

Moran’s head snapped up as Sherlock halted mid step. Even in the dark, Sherlock could see he'd startled the man. 

Sherlock froze, suddenly completely and utterly awake. He'd been half-asleep when he'd launched into routine, never pausing to think that the highly-strung, emotional, trained assassin might not be where he’d left him the previous night. Evidently Sebastian wasn't going to avoid Sherlock by staying in his room until Jim summoned him.

Sherlock was grateful that, at the very least, Sebastian didn't have a gun in hand and he himself was fully clothed, and lacking embarrassing evidence for once, which had become a rare way to wake up in the past few days. "I didn't think you'd be up."

"Same to you," Sebastian said after a pause of sizing Sherlock up. He lowed himself back against the chair, but he didn't turn back to the window. Hs attention remained steadfastly fixed on Sherlock, watching like a statue as his face sank back into shadow. His long legs had been spread out on the floor and they returned to their original position, before he'd drawn up at Sherlock's arrival. Sebastian looked at ease, but his stillness and his focus gave away his tension. 

Sherlock lingered in the hallway. He wasn't comfortable either, particularly with Sebastian staring at him like that. He couldn't feel or hear Jim's presence yet, which meant that he might be out of luck if he entered the bathroom and Sebastian decided to corner him. His current position allowed him to retreat to the back fire escape, at least. Sherlock could read his tension, easily see the man's frame braced in key places that would let him move at a split-second's notice, but he couldn't quite read Sebastian's intent. 

"...I have no intention of harassing you so long as you extend me the same civility. If you're waiting for Jim, he's not up yet."

Sherlock caught the shake of Sebastian's head. Not waiting for Jim, then. Even though Sebastian would always be waiting for Jim. It looked like that was all Sherlock was going to get, but then Sebastian finally relaxed. He laid his head back against the chair with a sigh and crossed his ankles over one another, losing the subtle tension to his posture. Sherlock could see, however, through the glint of faint street light, Sebastian's eyes still watched him. 

Sherlock gave him one last, cautious look, but decided to risk going ahead with his original intent. The bathroom door closed and locked behind him, and Sherlock started going through the morning rituals he'd readopted after two years undercover. Teeth were brushed while the water ran until the old pipes finally brought liquid that was better than tepid. Sherlock disrobed and stepped into the bathtub. The water didn't make him less tired, but it did wake him up further and sooth muscles that were aching after the long wait the previous day.

Still Jim was unusually quiet. Perhaps Sherlock had been right to say that he wasn't up yet. Jim may have nudged him out of their dream, but that didn't mean the spirit wasn't still resting somewhere back there. Silently. It was hard to imagine what Jim would want to do with Sebastian once he'd gotten the information Sebastian had to offer. Accounts and identities Sherlock had never linked to Jim, routes of trade that never had Jim's name attached to them, meeting grounds for such people Sherlock had never discovered.... It was also hard to imagine why Jim wanted to know these things. What did they matter to him now that he was dead? Life as a ghost seemed suddenly and incredibly dull. 

Sherlock finished up, dried, and wrapped a towel around himself while he shaved. He'd never been particularly hirsute, something for which he was very grateful, but shaving was still essential. He paused on one stroke to examine the bite wound. It was healing well, but also a vivid reminder of his situation and just how dangerous it could get. And now he had the added complication of Sebastian.

He'd already said that he wasn't going to split his life into a Jekyll-Hyde mess just so Jim could play the villain again. If Sebastian wasn't going to be a chess piece that got dispatched for dirty jobs, Sherlock wasn't certain what the man _was_ going to be doing.

Sherlock wiped the lingering traces of shaving cream from his face, slid into his dressing gown, and exited the room.

He ran into Sebastian in the kitchen. Leaning against the table. Making coffee. And standing far too close in the small space. One scarred brow raised at Sherlock's dressing gown, which was decidedly silky and well fitted to his form. Especially when Sherlock had nothing on underneath. Sebastian's brow remained arched. As though Sherlock's state of undress perplexed him, which, given Sherlock's reservations, was probably accurate. 

The coffee maker gurgled to a stop and, without moving, Sebastian reached over and poured himself a cup. He didn't offer one to Sherlock. 

Sherlock averted his gaze and quickly walked back to his room. He'd have to make a note to bring his change of clothes with him into the bathroom. A little dampness and a few wrinkles was preferable to having Sebastian look at him that way.

He hadn't ever worried about nudity in the flat, before. Mostly it had been due to the fact that he hadn't thought of himself as a sexual being, and he'd felt safe with John. The doctor wasn't the sort to either mock or attempt to give him unwanted attention, and so it hadn't been a problem if Sherlock had been too tired and distracted to dress in more than a sheet or a robe any given day. With Jim, it hardly mattered, because they couldn't get away from each other. Sebastian was a new variable that he'd have to remember and account for in the future.

Finally, he could feel Jim stirring in the air around him. The spirit’s presence stretched somewhere between the space of Sherlock’s mind and the physical world and once it had stretched far enough, he could feel Jim settle beneath his skin. He couldn't hear it, but it _felt_ like the ghost was yawning. It was difficult to say whether Jim had witnessed the little socially awkward run-in in the kitchen, but Jim certainly picked up on it now, if only from Sherlock's discomfort. 

Sherlock could hear a faint chuckle in the back of his mind. _"You look like you could use some coffee."_

"Not that kind of coffee." Sherlock was having a difficult time forgetting the look on Sebastian's face. He'd seen similar before, from strangers who wondered about the man with odd social quirks and expensive taste in clothing who'd swept into their lives. That, however, had always been a temporary affair, and he'd never given a damn about their opinions so long as they left him unhindered to pursue the solution to his latest puzzle. He didn't care much about Sebastian's opinions of him, except as they would affect the man’s attitude and behavior. "What is he here _for_ , besides feeding you the information you want to know? I don't have anything for him to do. He'd be instantly recognized if I claimed he was a new assistant, and that's presuming I could ever convince him to go along with such a charade."

_"Maybe I'm just lonely,"_ Jim replied unconvincingly. _"Maybe I'd like to reminisce about the good ol' days of domestic terrorism and you're not indulging me."_

The funny thing was, difficult as it was to believe, that was all Sebastian was really good for. Besides continuing Jim's work, of course, but did Jim really want to go back to work? That work had been a release from boredom, the only way to exercise his mind and satisfy his need for danger, for all the extremes life had to offer. And above all, Jim's need for control. If he wanted control over the unsuspecting public again, or of Sherlock especially, Sebastian could be his hands. 

"Just as long as it's only reminiscing. We've already discussed your idea about splitting time," Sherlock muttered. He did up the last few buttons and smoothed his hair into carefully disheveled curls. His vanity demanded satiation regardless of who was going to see him. "If you're bored, we'll think of something, but I'm not having Mycroft come down on my head with all of MI6 because he thinks I've lost my mind."

_"The duplicitous mystique of a double life doesn't tempt you at all?"_ Sherlock could feel Jim's interest pique, specifically at the mention of Mycroft. _"We could always have a bit of fun with your brother. Nothing harmful of course, just... enough to get his attention. Get on his nerves a little..."_ Jim was stretching again, luxuriating in his own mischievous thoughts. He'd enjoyed toying with Mycroft on the grand scale before he died. Sherlock on the other hand, he had toyed with personally.

Sherlock would have been lying if he'd claimed the idea held no appeal. His relationship with Mycroft had always been complicated, and had fractured at several points in his life. Even with his assistance in going underground and having a relatively smooth return to British society, there was a constant underlying tension between them. Sherlock disliked Mycroft's ego, constructed coldness, his adherence to order to a degree Sherlock found simultaneously ridiculous and frightening. Mycroft, in turn, disliked having an attachment to an unpredictable wildcard he couldn't control, a liability who knew too many of his personal secrets, frequently publicly embarrassing to some degree of consequence for his own reputation, and often in danger. Mycroft wanted to bring him into the governmental fold, and Sherlock dug his heels in and childishly rebelled at every turn. He understood the factors that had driven Mycroft to his decisions, but Sherlock knew that such a transition would kill a large part of himself.

"I don't think that's a wise idea." Anything that showed Jim's signature, or seemed too great of a threat, would make Mycroft start to dig, and Sherlock didn't want to be on the other end when Mycroft traced the thread all the way to the end.

Sherlock could feel Jim's inevitable eye roll, which was more of a feeling than a real motion. _"If I'm going to be stuck in your daily life, I would prefer to have an extra hand nearby who knows my work. I can't always borrow yours,"_ Jim said, changing the subject back to Sebastian. _"And you never know, you might even come to like him. Or at least tolerate him."_ Jim stretched himself through the folds of Sherlock's mind, not searching, but readying himself after his period of rest. _"Also, we'll need to get us a computer."_

A shiver ran through Sherlock's frame. He wasn't cold, nor frightened, but the sensation of someone sliding around inside him was unsettling. It also tickled in a way Sherlock couldn't quite describe. "I very much doubt that, even if, as you said, he warms to me based solely on the fact that you're riding around beneath my skin. _Tolerating me_ , just barely, isn't conducive to getting me to like someone. Particularly someone who's tried to kill me several times over."

Sherlock picked up his phone from where it had been charging on the bedside table and slipped it into his pocket. "Why do we need another computer? My laptop is perfectly functional. Or is it that your associate doesn't have one?"

_"I might as well put him to work while he's with us,"_ Jim commented, ignoring Sherlock's irritation. _"If I'm going to be thrust back to the conscious world, I'd rather know what's going on in it."_ Jim sounded rather petulant at that, and still he wouldn't let it go. It wasn't very likely Jim would leave it at that either. The more he knew what was happening in the world, the more he would desire to have a hand in it. And he'd been out of the loop for three years. A lot happened in three years, especially in Jim's circles. Those circles that no longer existed, thanks to Sherlock, which funny enough, Jim didn't seem too upset about. He'd been more upset that Sherlock himself had continued on with his regular life when it was all said and done. 

"Fine. If it makes you happy, we'll go shopping." Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he couldn't put things off any longer. Staying confined to his bedroom all day to avoid Sebastian wasn't productive, and Sherlock was hungry. He didn't always feel hunger pangs, but irresponsible eating the past few days had finally caught up to him. His fingers closed around the doorknob and made his way back towards the kitchen.

The kitchen Sebastian hadn't left. His pale eyes fell on Sherlock the moment he came into view. "Having an argument with yourself?" Sebastian asked wryly. From his seat at the table, cold cup in hand, he'd probably heard a lot. Sherlock hadn't exactly been quiet on his end of the conversation, and Sebastian had to be dying to talk to Jim. Even though he was hiding it very well. 

_"Tell him you're getting him a computer and I'll talk to him when we get back,"_ Jim huffed inside Sherlock's head. 

Sherlock's expression soured. He didn't enjoy playing middleman between Jim and Sebastian, and there was something unsettling about the sharp blue tint of Sebastian's eyes set into his angular, scarred face. That and the knowledge of what he was capable of, and the fact that he was _very_ focused on Sherlock, now and for the foreseeable future. "...Jim has told to me to relate to you that we're going shopping for a computer for you, for some purpose or another. He'll talk to you once we get back." Sherlock straightened and walked past Sebastian as he spoke, heading for the coffee maker. If he didn't have time to properly eat, at the very least he was going to get some caffeine in his system.

He could hear Sebastian shift in his seat to keep Sherlock in his line of sight, but he remained silent, sizing Sherlock up with his unnaturally cold gaze. So far, where Jim was all fire and intensity, Sebastian was cold and restrained. But that didn't suit the details Sherlock saw in his person. It was more like Sebastian was simply waiting to strike. 

The coffee was lukewarm, at best. Even that was being optimistic. The man simply watched with mild disinterest as Sherlock poured it into a travel mug, but before Sherlock could snap at him, something happened. The cup in his hand began to warm. Noticeably. Then the black liquid began to steam. Suddenly it boiled, nearly spilling over the edge before settling again. 

Sebastian's eyes widened. 

Sherlock shut his eyes and wavered on his feet. "...stop wasting energy," he murmured. Enacting a rapid temperature change had to have drained Jim, because Sherlock had felt the drain in turn. He'd barely gotten out of bed and he already felt lethargic. Magic tricks to impress Sebastian wouldn't help if Sherlock became too tired to do anything, or Jim lost so much energy that he couldn't fulfill his promise to speak to the man later. Sebastian was being patient, all things considered, but he wouldn't be patient forever.

Sherlock snapped the lid onto the travel mug and went to get his coat without another word. "If you have an idea on how to get a computer without Sebastian being picked up on camera, I'm all ears. My network, to my knowledge, doesn't extend to high quality electronics."

_"Simple. He's waiting here."_ Jim's reply sounded nonchalant, but Sherlock caught the terse note in its pitch. Jim hadn't liked being scolded for the coffee. Though all things considered, mostly Sherlock's exhaustion, it was a ridiculous thing to do. And pointless. Perhaps Jim had done it out of spite. Or yes, to amuse Sebastian. Or, laughably, in an attempt to do Sherlock a small kindness. Whatever it was, Jim obviously wanted it dropped. _"Problem solved. Let's go."_

Sherlock's mouth opened, then closed. He shook his head and gave Sebastian a dubious look. He didn't fear the man ambushing him when he got back, or anything of the sort, but Sebastian was a distrusted stranger. It felt wrong to leave him in the flat unsupervised, just like it felt wrong for him to invade John's room. Sherlock knew logically that there was nothing detectable in that room that could be conceived of as an "essence", but he'd deliberately left it empty to try to hold onto the past for as long as possible. Having the negative reflection of John living in the space shattered the delusion. It was difficult to pretend that that a kind, short doctor and ex-soldier was going to become unattached and move back in when a cruel, tall assassin and ex-soldier was now overlaid onto the same location.

"We're not taking you along." Sherlock met Sebastian's eyes and his expression turned assertive. "You're not to touch my computer, or my violin. Don't go in my room. I _will_ notice. We'll be back in a short while once Jim has the computer he wants."

At first Sebastian's eyes widened, but then a wry smile found its way onto his mouth. Like Sherlock's attempt at control, and dominance, amused him. "Sir, yes sir," Sebastian drawled with none of the respect afforded to a real commanding officer. He even raised his fingers to his marred forehead and gave Sherlock a smooth salute, but the pull at the corners of his mouth never faded. 

Sherlock could feel Jim give the equivalent of a snort in his head. Or possibly a huff of impatience. It was hard to tell. But Sebastian continued to sit unassumingly at the table with his new mug of coffee, rolling it between his hands, the very picture of compliance. Sherlock raised one eyebrow and his gaze turned sharp, but he didn't have time to try to quarrel with the man. Likely he also didn't have any leverage that would make Sebastian treat him with more respect and consideration; he couldn't physically threaten him. All he had was Sebastian's desire to be near Jim and, if it came to the worst, creatively punishing him by chemical means. That would only really work once; Sebastian wouldn't accept food or drink from Sherlock or his flat if he taught the man a lesson that way.

The detective turned on his heel and left. He tried to be grateful that, at the least, he now had warm coffee with him.

_"Try not to worry so much. We'll be back before you know it,"_ Jim said in what Sherlock assumed could only be an attempt to ease his mind. He felt a warm presence seep into his chest. Definitely, Jim was attempting comfort. But it was Jim. Jim didn't know how to do this. Comforting words and gestures from him could never be taken without considering the source. 

Sebastian might get curious sitting alone in the flat. It wasn't unlikely he would go snooping about, but he had little motivation to destroy anything. Sebastian didn't care about Sherlock's life. He cared about Jim, and Sherlock's existence only by extension. 

_"There's little in the way of physical objects that hold much attachment for me, but I don't want him exploring without me there."_ It was the same principle problem he'd had with Jim: pieces of one's private living quarters were sometimes extensions of the self in what one found there, and having a stranger pick things over and learn personal things about him without his permission felt like a violation. _"I also don't want him finding the hidden compartments in the flat."_

Sherlock got down to street level and rolled his eyes at the obvious security detachment that was visible. Twice over, in fact; aside from the plainclothes officers loitering in a car across the street, Sherlock could spot an undercover agent further down the road. He'd had enough people tailing him on Mycroft's orders before to be able to recognize the stiffness and sterility that government agents exuded. They were a bit too calculated in their guises. Luckily, he wasn't going anywhere that would raise any suspicions, particularly if Jim didn't try to take control.

_"Popular these days, aren't you?"_ Jim mused as Sherlock walked. He set a brisk pace down the street, not going to be bothered by either passersby or the Met's men. There was an electronics store not far, only a few streets away, and it would have to do. Jim hadn't been very specific on what he'd need, and knowing Jim, that was an indication that he didn't in fact need anything specific. Something to access the web and be modified to Jim's liking would do. What he would have Sebastian doing on it was another matter of concern. 

They were crossing the last street when Sherlock's phone chimed. A text from Lestrade. Finally, he'd deemed Sherlock ready for an update. 

_Trail went cold. Investigation remains open, but our guy has likely fled the country. Had to hand this one off to MI5._

Sherlock sighed. He did like Lestrade, and he did occasionally have twinges of guilt about the frequency and degree to which he had to lie to the DI. His fingers darted over the screen and began typing out a reply. _Keep me updated if interesting cases come up._

Sherlock was still feeling off-balance, but he didn't want Greg to keep him confined to the sidelines for weeks out of concern for his well-being. He was dealing with a number of problems, but a case would be a beneficial distraction. Possibly even critical; he wanted to see how Jim would handle his work. Jim had dismissed such things as boring and trivial when it wasn’t his own crime Sherlock was puzzling out, but experiencing it from Sherlock's perspective, _with_ Sherlock, might change his mind.

The detective kept walking and pretended he didn't notice the way he was subtly followed at a distance. He sipped at his coffee and wondered whether he wanted to risk leaving Sebastian alone for additional time if it meant picking up food on the way back.

They entered the electronics store and were, like the Tesco, plunged into the monotonous, dreary world of normal people, of clerks and customers and everyone who never dealt with dismembered and infected corpses nor the return of adversaries from beyond the grave. But a burst of warm air came with it, and even though Sherlock was as out of place as he ever was in daily life, it was a reminder that the rest of the world, the one John had returned to, still carried on. 

They quickly found the isles of laptops. Jim considered as Sherlock moved. It took less than five seconds for him to nudge Sherlock's attention toward one. Small, durable, decent processor, long battery life, cheap. Nothing fancy. 

_"I would have thought you to be the sort to go in for something more high end."_ Sherlock hadn't been certain what he'd been expecting. Something more along the lines of a few individuals he's seen the Met catch over the years, causing trouble with homebrew systems built with expensive individual components and operating systems that tended to only be run by those who occupied certain niches. The laptop Jim had selected wouldn't have been out of place in the possession of an elderly person or single parent - someone too preoccupied with other things to bother with learning technical information.

Sherlock became aware of a clerk approaching before the man entered his line of sight. He could feel another eyeroll from Jim. _"I can switch the operating system. All I need is software. The rest is irrelevant."_ Easily replaceable, too. Jim sneered from the back of Sherlock's mind as the clerk asked whether Sherlock would like any help. He apparently did not like interacting, even through Sherlock, with unsuspecting people on a day to day basis. 

"No, I've already figured out what I need." Sherlock started the purchase process, getting the clerk to go back to the locked stock area and pull the correct model. The clerk walked him to the front registers and Sherlock did his best to ignore the sharp feelings at the back of his head. _"I can see why you rarely did legwork, now. You seem to have an even lower tolerance than I do. Was that why you were desperate for company?"_

Sherlock could feel Jim's attention hone in on him, scrutinizing Sherlock's motivation for asking, but he answered just the same. _"You know it was. I told you from the very beginning. Sebastian could be fun, but compared to a mind like mine, well. I was desperate to find someone who could play at my level. Someone who_ would _play at my level."_ Jim's irritation with the clerk and the few customers in line behind them didn't lessen until they were back out on the street. 

Sherlock walked right past the Met officers who'd followed and managed not to smirk at them. Barely. 

_"Isn't it more interesting to play opposite sides, though? Playing chess by yourself is dull, but it's no less dull when you've got another person helping you and no opponent."_ Sherlock paused to wait for a traffic light to turn and let him back across the street. Other pedestrians, thankfully, either didn't recognize him or didn't gawp and try to engage with him if they did. _"We don't play in the same way. You build, and I unravel."_

_"Yes, and while we played, on opposing sides....that was the most fun I'd had in a very, very long time."_ Sherlock could hear by the tone of Jim's voice that he meant it. _"But the game can only last so long. One way or another, it had to reach its own culmination. Our game was the perfect distraction, Sherlock. But even it couldn't overcome the...disappointment of life."_ And Jim had decided how to fix that. He'd attempted and nearly succeeded in leaving this world. 

_"And you feel life always has to be disappointing?"_ It was quite often, certainly. Sherlock knew that his intellect and skills caused no small amount of envy in other people, along with his physical appearance and social connections via family, but... such things also had caused quite a lot of pain and alienation. People desired uniqueness while craving conformity, and they punished those who didn't fall within their comfort lines. Sherlock had been punished quite often; more so because he couldn't relate to normal people, while those self-same people became angry with him over communication misunderstandings or the perceived inequality between them. _"Are you still unhappy with how things have turned out for you?"_

_"With how life has turned out?"_ Jim asked, _" Absolutely."_ It took a long time for him to elaborate. A whole street block, precisely, before he continued. _"We have the capacity for knowledge and the inability to affect change in any meaningful degree. I accepted the realities of the universe, as it applied to other people, and also myself, but I did not_ like _it."_

People died, that's what people did. Jim's words had been acceptance of reality by the pool that day. And yet his very existence now strove to defy the circumstances of that reality. 

_"I accepted the fact, long ago, that my work would likely have no permanent change on the world."_ Sherlock could shift individual lives, certainly, and alter the courses of some things, but always in an abstract way that seemed pointless. People frequently commented that this or that victim might have turned out to be someone who made an amazing technological breakthrough, or would have become a beloved leader or some such thing, but statistics weren’t in their favor. Most people were mundane, followers, who lived their lives by staying firmly within the boundaries of things, keeping their noses down, and trying to obtain as much comfort as they could get rather than changing the circumstances around them.

_"Mycroft thinks he's making a lasting impact, but I doubt that, and I wasn't willing to sacrifice everything and live that way on the off-chance that I'd leave something permanent behind. And what use would that be, really? I wouldn't be around to enjoy it."_ They were coming up on the flat by now. Sherlock could see the overhang for Speedy's. His stomach reminded him again of just how empty it was.

_"Your brother isn't changing anything. Neither are you. And neither was I. It is the very nature of existence for humanity,"_ Jim hissed. _" It's in the function of a brain, the nature of cells and atoms to thrive and then die, the nature of separate, individual existence and the inability to reach beyond our limitations coupled with the torture of imagining that we can. We must accept all this, somehow, or be simply ignorant of it. The latter is by far the more popular solution."_

_"I don't think we can change things, but our limitations must not be drawn where we think, or else this would not be possible."_ Existence for them was no longer truly separate. Jim had died but failed to disappear. Sherlock turned the key in the building lock as he thought. Wordlessly, without being able to articulate how he did it, he reached back in his mind, attempting the same thing Jim had done before - touching the agitated presence in the shadows to try to impart comfort.

He felt, as if from fingertips intertwining with his own, something press back. It felt like Jim, as Sherlock was coming to know the feel of Jim. As distinct as he could detect different smells or tastes, Jim had a feel. And Sherlock could feel his emotions now, too. Perhaps Jim was allowing him to do so, but they were honest. Jim was...frustrated, despondent, but in a way familiar enough to him that it was not so strong. It was just the same old great disappointment of life. 

Sherlock stepped through and closed the door behind him, and their contact faded until Jim was only the usual weight in the back of his mind. His flat was silent. No sounds of Sebastian moving around filtered down the stairs, which may or may not have been a good sign. 

When Sherlock opened the door, he found Sebastian's long limbs sprawled out on the couch. Asleep.

Sherlock stared. He couldn't not. He'd been expecting a confrontation when he got back, either with Sebastian digging around exactly where he'd been told not to go, or with the man immediately demanding to talk to Jim as soon as the front door closed. He either must not have slept well the previous night, or whatever sleep he'd gotten hadn't been able to counteract the neglect he'd put his body through while pursuing revenge.

Sebastian was... significantly less intimidating when unconscious. There was still the threat of pure physical strength, and the scars to suggest that he wasn't a creature to be trifled with, but his long limbs didn't look gangly and ridiculous like Sherlock thought his own body must appear. He was draped in a way that suggested something graceful and slightly leonine.

Sherlock realized he was staring for longer than might be considered appropriate. He averted his gaze and quietly crept into the kitchen to unpack their purchase.

Without comment, Jim sent a stroke of warm pressure down the curve of his shoulder. Not enticement, not suggestion, and not uncomfortable, just a small gesture of approval. 

_"You can leave it on the table. I'll have him set it up,"_ Jim said softly, as though there were any chance of Sebastian hearing him. _"You should eat. Get some of your strength back."_ And Sherlock could feel how comforting Jim was trying to be, again, in the way he warmed in the center of Sherlock's chest. 

He still couldn't tell if it was real. Maybe Jim was capable of that sort of affection and concern, or maybe he was thinking more pragmatically - how to appear that way to mollify Sherlock, how to ensure that Sherlock took care of the body they both occupied so it wouldn't break down on them. Whichever it was, Jim was right. He _did_ need to eat, even if eating tended to be a chore for him.

There were still plenty of supplies from their previous shopping trip, which meant Sebastian hadn't helped himself to much. Sherlock dug out the supplies for a sandwich and an apple, which seemed like the least work-intensive meal he could manage. It was that or heating a can of soup on the hob, but that sounded even less appealing.

Strangely, he felt Jim leave him for a moment. Or perhaps not so strange, as he'd done it often enough before, but Sherlock had been tired today and that meant that Jim had to be tired as well. Or at least have minimal reserves of energy at his disposal. But Jim returned after a minute, without comment, as Sherlock continued to make his sandwich. 

Then Sebastian appeared at the corner, looking tired but no less alert. He assessed the state of Sherlock's breakfast and frowned. Then sighed.

"Move aside." And then Sebastian was heading toward Sherlock, forcing him either out of the way or at risk of being within arm's reach of one another. He reached for a sack of potatoes Mrs. Hudson had left in the futile hope Sherlock might actually make himself a meal. 

Sherlock rapidly backed away, so hasty he neglected to even retain the knife he'd been using. He hadn't been expecting Sebastian to suddenly wake up, or to suddenly want to use the same facilities Sherlock was using.

It didn't take long for Sherlock to get suspicious. The way Sebastian had looked at him and what he was doing combined with Jim's fleeting disappearance, and the way he'd returned when Sebastian was awake. People didn't normally wake up and immediately head to the kitchen to cook. "...what are you doing?"

"Making you something you'll actually eat," Sebastian grunted while opening the freezer. There was one pack of frozen sausages, probably also from Mrs. Hudson and questionable as to how long they'd been there, but after a brief inspection, Sebastian deemed them fit enough. He rummaged around until he found a few pans and the knife Sherlock had dropped on the counter, and set about peeling potatoes. "You going to let me talk to Jim," he asked after a brief silence. 

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up. He'd started to guess as much, but he hadn't really been expecting confirmation. "...why?" he asked. He hadn't heard anything in the other room, and Jim didn't feel more exhausted that he had been. As far as Sherlock knew, Jim couldn't speak directly to Sebastian's mind, or else the man wouldn't have continued to be insistent on speaking with him. "I'm not going to interfere whenever Jim decides he's ready to talk"

Icy eyes glanced to Sherlock and then back to the pans. Sebastian added oil and dumped in the sliced up potatoes. "Pretty sure he just woke me up." He shrugged a shoulder. Sherlock could feel Jim coil and warm with slight amusement. A light breeze ruffled the fringe of Sebastian's hair and he jerked. "Like that." 

It didn't take much energy, granted, but Jim was getting a habit of doing these little things. If he kept it up constantly, he could be in trouble of draining Sherlock slowly. Sherlock could feel Jim settle, centering himself inside Sherlock's body. _"I'm ready."_

Sebastian turned his attention from the pans. He focused it all on Sherlock now, and it was slightly unnerving. Jim, however, didn't seem to think so. Sherlock was overcome with that odd sense of fullness in his mind first and then even through his body as Jim expanded his control. He did it slowly, nudging Sherlock out of a muscle he was holding tense, slackening his fingers one hand at a time, holding Sherlock's posture at ease when he spread to Sherlock's spine until finally Sherlock was loosened from his own extremities and felt the sensation of being sent deep down into himself. 

Jim took a breath, a deep one. He raised Sherlock's gaze to Sebastian and blinked with Sherlock's eyes, testing the roll of his shoulders. 

"Jim," Sebastian breathed. 

Sherlock wasn't certain he'd ever get used to this feeling. It reminded him vaguely of his experiences with certain opiates, the way he floated inside his numbed body, but this seemed even more detached... and he could still feel. He experienced his normal senses, and the added sense of Jim being right there, a warm pressure filling him up completely instead of being a weight at the back of his head.   
The last wasn't entirely unpleasant, but it was certainly unnerving.

Sherlock watched emotion fill Sebastian's features and felt even stranger. Sebastian wasn't looking at _him_ , but he also was. The view was a bit like watching a movie unfold if it was filmed through the eyes of one of the main characters, and just as surreal.

Jim pulled a smile across his face. And took a step closer, removing the distance Sherlock had put between himself and Sebastian. "Poor thing. How you did miss me." Jim drew his hand up and laid it against Sebastian's cheek. Sherlock could feel a sickly sweet pleasure run through Jim as Sebastian closed his eyes, froze in place, and allowed himself to be touched. The oil in the pan crackled. "Better take care of that," Jim said with a glance. 

"Fuck, Jim," Sherlock could hear the strain in Sebastian's voice. Jim pushed away and went to take a seat at the table. Sebastian set everything on slow burn and hastily moved across from Sherlock. He was trying to keep the tension out of his face. 

"I never expected you to feel so sentimental over me," Jim sent Sherlock's voice into a rumbling purr. Sherlock noticed he liked making that sound. 

"You knew." Sebastian's jaw clenched. 

As fascinating as it was to watch Sebastian suddenly become incredibly stripped and vulnerable, more interesting still were the things Sherlock was feeling from Jim. Ownership, and pleasure at the way Sebastian obviously worshipped him, tripping over himself and bending at the slightest pressure in his attempts to please or get close to Jim. This wasn't a reaction that would have developed from gratitude for being saved from prison, if Sherlock was correct in his guesses on how things between the two had transpired. Sebastian's reactions seemed almost... trained. _"...what did you do to him?"_

Jim's smile peeled back from his teeth. "Sherlock would like to know how I garnered such loyalty, such...devotion, from you." Sebastian shifted uncomfortably and his mouth turned down with annoyance. Still Jim went on. "Sebastian likes to think of himself as a hunter, and in fact he is. A man who can best the most dangerous game, man or beast. Those animals are beautiful in their ferocity, aren't they Sebastian? ...I simply gave him a target he couldn't best. But one he could obey. If given the right...incentive." 

"You're a bastard, you know that Jim?" Sebastian growled. 

Jim smirked, unafraid. The pleasure inside him only spread. 

Sebastian was afraid of Jim. Of that much, Sherlock was certain. It showed in little ways, like how Jim was able to nettle him and the man would tense and grumble like a cornered, irritated beast being poked with a stick, but never dare to try and retaliate. Or how Sebastian's first response, while emotional, hadn't been to strike at Jim to express his pain. John had cared deeply and still clocked Sherlock in the face when he'd returned from false death.

"One day, Sherlock, I'll show you," Jim promised and that got such a reaction out of Sebastian it was hard to miss. The man didn't move, but his shoulders went rigid, his knuckles tightened, his jaw grew taut, and his pupils dilated. All the reaction signs of expecting a battle, right down to the spike of excitement in those blue eyes. Sebastian liked danger, then. Just like John. No, not quite like John. Jim had done this before with him. Whatever it was, it was a battle Sebastian wouldn't win, but he still seemed to enjoy the...possibly the brutality in it, the 'ferocity' Jim had mentioned in the big game he hunted. And Sherlock could tell it was something that both excited him and made him uneasy, just by the way he shifted minutely in his seat, widening his legs. 

"You said you wanted to talk business," Sebastian cut in. 

Sherlock's fascination sharpened even further. He wasn't certain what interested him more - Sebastian's visceral reaction and the suggestions of what had transpired between the two men before, or the fact that Jim was capable of overpowering Sebastian and enjoyed doing it. Clearly there was an erotic element at play as well, and Sherlock's mind immediately began to speculate and generate images of its own accord. His imagination quickly shifted from how Jim might corner and fight Sebastian down into submission to... what it might be like if their positions were switched, and if it would be as unpleasant as the first few experiences between Jim and himself, when Jim hadn't seemed to care what Sherlock wanted.

Something in him responded deeply to that image. Sherlock wondered why, and if that feeling was significant.

Jim's smile slackened and his attention turned inward. Some of Sherlock must have seeped through because it certainly caught Jim off guard. Jim cocked his head and a hint of that smile returned. 

"What?" Sebastian asked, sensing Jim's attention was suddenly divided. 

"Nothing." Jim redirected his attention back to Sebastian. "And yes. I know you've cut ties with our old networks. Almost all of which Sherlock has since dismantled. What I'd like to know is whether you've kept an eye on the forums we set up. I'm looking only for a place to chat." 

Slowly, Sebastian nodded. "A few. Changed hands several times..."

Sherlock tried to refocus. He wanted to know what Jim had in mind, and he had no way of reading Jim's mind. Sebastian wasn't likely to fill him in on the details later, either, which meant he had to pay attention now in order to have any data to work with. _"Why do you need to chat with anyone? I meant it, we're not turning into a two-faced mess where I solve crimes part time while you create others part time."_

"You'll have nothing to do with it, Sherlock," Jim said evenly. "You can hardly expect me to live locked up in your head. If I'm 'alive', then I'm going to find out where the world has been since I left it. Call it a curiosity." Sebastian frowned, listening to Jim's half of the conversation. "Set up the laptop," Jim instructed him. "Get rid of Windows. Install Linux, and then I'll see what I can do." 

Sebastian moved to get the computer, but even he wore a questioning look upon his face.

_"And after you find out the state of things, what then? You can't expect me to believe you'll be content to leave it alone and not meddle."_ Sherlock could see Sebastian carrying out his orders. A power cord was plugged into a kitchen outlet and then Sebastian had the laptop open and booting up. _"I've no intention of keeping you 'locked up in my head', or I'd never permit you to take control like this. We'll find something to keep you happily occupied that doesn't involve risking my life in the process."_

"Easier said than done, Sherlock, but you're welcome to try." Jim sounded neither optimistic nor pessimistic, just indulgent. He didn't likely believe he could be interested enough to give up his other pursuits in Sherlock's endeavours. The experiments, maybe. Jim would be interested in those. Jim would...possibly be interested in crime scene investigation, but that was questionable. 

They watched as Sebastian began the installation process and then the necessary downloads, and then the installation process all over again, at which point he handed it over to Jim. Jim grew accustomed to Sherlock's fingers enough so that they were flying over the keys as he installed the new OS, Sebastian watching over his shoulder, and then he began several more downloads. Encrypting the hard drive, isolating the new OS, forcing processes to run on memory, and checking to make sure Sebastian remembered the steps every time. 

The whole undertaking took nearly an hour. 

Sherlock was surprised that Jim was holding onto control for this long. It had to be wearing him down, just as it had when Jim had taken control to talk Sebastian into coming with them, then leading him back across town. _"Sebastian is going to be angry if you expend everything on setting up a laptop and collapse without talking to him. I don't really want to be the one stuck with his frustrations when you run out of energy and crash."_ It was likely to not be long from now, too, with the little stunt Jim had pulled earlier.

Jim sighed. "Fine. I suppose it's time to test the next part of this plan anyway." Sebastian looked up, just as curious as Sherlock. "I'm going to leave your body. You'll have control again." He sat up, got comfortable for the transition, and Sherlock was thrust forward, back into awareness of his own motor functions. 

Jim was gone. Almost. 

Sherlock could still feel him close by. Vaguely. As he often did when Jim moved about the flat for some reason or another. Sebastian was looking at Sherlock like he could see the difference. And then a new window opened on the screen before them. 

_> Hello boys._

Sherlock stared. It took a few moments for him to process what must be happening. What _had_ happened. He'd seen even great impossibilities lately, but it was still a bit numbing to look at words scrawled across a screen and know they were being written by a dead person. "... _this_ was what you had in mind?"

Sherlock flexed his fingers to return feeling to them. Jim drawing comparisons between the electric impulses in the human body and those within a computer was very clever, but the implications were also a bit frightening. Sherlock had no idea how far Jim might be able to travel this way, or what he might be able to do to other systems from a great distance.

"Shit," Sebastian whispered, apparently having similar ideas. He set his hands back on the keyboard. 

_> Hello Jim._ He didn't look like he could think of anything else to say. 

This was draining considerably less energy from Sherlock, he could tell already. Jim didn't have to control an entire body, both in primary functions and unconscious functions, Sherlock's movements as well as his breathing. 

_> This is how we will work now. Sebastian, you and I will be able to converse. And Sherlock, you may rest._

Sherlock's eyes narrowed in suspicion. This was easier on his body, but it also meant that Jim could do a multitude of things without him knowing. Jim could very well start running new jobs and commanding Sebastian, and others, from this surrogate vessel and Sherlock wouldn't be the wiser. Not unless and until the computer was traced back to his address and brought the authorities down on his head. 

"Perfect. And a wonderful way of phrasing that, if I might say so. _May_ rest. You'll just secretly make plans behind my back until you need a body to ride around in again, I suppose?" Sherlock sighed, rose, and went to finish up the cooking. Sebastian had turned the heat down, but the potatoes and sausage were beginning to burn slightly around the edges.

Sebastian sighed, grabbed the laptop, and went to the couch where he sprawled out in his former position, one of Sherlock's favourites, actually, and began to type. Jim, however, was not gone completely. Sherlock felt the ghost's presence sweep up his spine after a minute's conversation with Sebastian. 

_"Sherlock,"_ Jim whispered into his mind, _"That computer will not be traced. You remember that neither you nor your brother could manage it the last time, even when you knew you were looking for me."_ A gentle weight pressed down on his shoulders. _"If you wish to redirect my attention, I wasn't leading you on. I will indulge you. It'll be an experiment of sorts. But I know my own mind, and it is better for you not to be involved in what work I do choose to pursue. In this way, I will not have to use your name, your face, your body, or location."_

Sherlock's chin lowered and his fringe fell across his eyes, obscuring his vision. Even his hands paused midway through dumping the contents of the pan onto a plate. Sherlock knew this agitation was pointless, and was equally ashamed at how emotional the situation was making him. He'd always been thus, but able to hide it. There was simply no place to hide from someone who could observe everything running through his head.

Despite what Jim had put him through, multiple times, he didn't want any sort of revenge. He didn't want Jim to suffer; from what he'd gathered, the other man had suffered quite enough when he was alive. _"...I want this to work. I want you to feel as content as you can, not just for my own sake. I appreciate, on some level, that you're trying to spare me, but I'm also uncomfortable about being kept in the dark all the time. I don't like feeling unequal, and I don't like bad surprises."_

Jim was surprised. It showed in his silence. He wasn't going to put this aside, and they both knew it. Sherlock had indicated so. Which left only one more option. _"Then come watch me work."_ Jim spread warmth across Sherlock's back before pulling away. He left in a sweeping motion, as though trying to tug Sherlock along with him. Back at the couch, Sebastian began to type again, though he glanced over to Sherlock once or twice. 

Sherlock got a glass of water before taking his plate and crossing the room. A very awkward moment ensued when Sebastian paused in his typing and looked up at Sherlock, standing in front of the couch and staring right back. Sherlock didn't particularly want to get closer to Sebastian, but he was going to have to sit next to him in order to see what Jim was doing. And in order to do that, Sebastian was going to have to be willing to sit up and move his legs so there _was_ somewhere to sit. 

"Alright then," Sebastian said after their stare went on for a bit too long. He lifted the laptop and swung his legs down to the floor, righting himself so he could place the computer on the coffee table. 

Sitting next to Sebastian was definitely awkward at first, primarily because Sherlock had to sit so close. Sebastian made no comment, just continued his browse through what looked like a series of rather old or minimally designed forums. He didn't show it, but he was probably nearly as uncomfortable as Sherlock was. 

Jim, however, was not beyond taking advantage of the situation. Once they were settled, he activated the webcam and before they realized what was happening, a photograph of Sebastian hunched over the keyboard pressed shoulder to shoulder with Sherlock, half a bite of sausage sticking out of his mouth, popped up on the screen. 

Sherlock frowned and swallowed. "That's not funny, Jim," he grumbled. All in all, the ghost could have done worse, but Jim knew how uneasy Sherlock still was. About sexuality in general, and Sebastian's attentions in specific. Sebastian had a way to talk to Jim now without waiting for him to take over Sherlock's body, but Sherlock was the only living body he could seem to possess. Sebastian's feelings for Jim clearly hadn't diminished, which meant Sherlock was going to have to endure the man's uncomfortable focus at minimum.

"It's a little bit funny," Sebastian commented unexpectedly, completely deadpan. He continued bringing up new forums and lists of servers for Jim to make note of until he had half a dozen. "That's it. That's all I know of." 

_> It's a start._ popped up on the screen. 

And off they went to business. Jim did a bit of his own browsing, searching through unrelated networks, reading between the lines of seemingly meaningless conversation, ads for jobs, innocuous posts from a name he recognized that led to more and more. Jim could put threads of dialog together to determine who was still alive and who was in contact with whom. Much of it would be private, even from the hidden part of the web they browsed, but even criminals had to advertise, and Jim began a list of people to contact. 

Sherlock watched in silence, and the food on his plate slowly disappeared. He hadn't expected Sebastian to say anything about Jim's prank, or at least not anything positive. The space on the couch was such that they were still pressed too close to one another for comfort, and Sherlock's attention was divided between what was happening on the laptop monitor, trying to guess what Jim was thinking, and the solid warmth right next to him. "...I'm guessing that the jobs you favored were always chosen like my own? I wasn't able to discern a solid pattern when dismantling what you’d put together."

_> Yes_ flashed into view. _> I let them come to me and I chose the interesting ones. Very few were personal._

Even Sherlock, from his research into Moriarty's inner network, could recognize a few of the names they ran across - people who put criminals in touch with one another, a few he hadn't known to be involved with Jim at all, a few he knew for sure weren't, rivals, new potential customers, the list went on. Jim was outlining communications across these hidden boards like a map. Every time he found a hole that indicated someone's private network, he made note of it and how to get invited in. It was time consuming, and Sherlock may have been able to do much of it himself if he'd wanted to, but Jim had prior knowledge that turned their coded language into something meaningful. 

Still, their work went on for hours before Jim announced it was time to stop. 

Sherlock had begun to slouch slowly over the course of watching Jim work. The ghost using the computer was less of a drain, but still a gradual one that Sherlock felt, and his body had been hit hard and repetitively over the course of the last few days. His limbs felt too loose to have a great deal of control, his back muscles were a series of knots, and his head felt stuffed full of wool from too many short and troubled bursts of sleep that did more to rejuvenate Jim than himself. It took Sherlock two tries to get to his feet and shuffle into the kitchen with his empty plate and glass. 

"You should get some sleep," Sebastian called from the sitting room. He put the computer on standby and moved to follow Sherlock, leaning against the door frame. 

Jim curled himself back into Sherlock, not really helping but for the warmth and the lack of drain. Sebastian didn't look concerned, exactly, but he did look certain that Sherlock wouldn't last on his feet for very long. 

"Yes, I couldn't have figured that out on my own," Sherlock drawled. His fatigue was making him irritable, and he saw no reason why Sebastian should feel the need to follow him. "Your concern for the well-being of your boss's physical tether is, truly, very touching. I'm so glad you're no longer enthusiastic about killing me with deadly infectious diseases."

For some reason, that made Sebastian half smile. Maybe it was Sherlock's petulance, because he didn't seem at all intimidated, but nor did he look particularly affronted at being caught out. He simply stood and watched. It was unnerving enough to nearly send Sherlock out of the room anyway. Sebastian had gotten his second taste of Jim in Sherlock's body, and he had to be mapping the differences. ...possibly even wondering how his intimately familiar memories of Jim's body might compare to Sherlock's. 

And unfortunately, Sebastian didn't hide his thoughts nearly as well as Jim did. Sherlock could deduce bits of what he was thinking, and he flushed before all the color drained from his face. He'd nettled the gunman about it, but he didn't want to seriously consider that Sebastian was starting to become concerned for his physical health, at least, not simply because he was the person tying Jim to the world of the living, but because Jim could occupy his skin. Sherlock turned on his heel and staggered into the hallway towards his bedroom.

This time, Jim didn't comment on it. Sherlock had yet to have a good reaction to that sort of thing and Jim was tired, too. He curled himself into a smaller and smaller ball in Sherlock's mind, trying to conserve energy until Sherlock hit the bed, face first. Then Jim spread out again. He was slow, soothing pressure down the back of Sherlock's neck and spine, out his arms, wrists, fingertips, down the back of his legs, like Jim were lying down above him, draping himself over Sherlock's body. Except he felt like he was inside Sherlock's body.

Sherlock didn't have the physical or mental fortitude to make a fuss about it. He melted under the phantom touches, brows slightly creased while Jim slid through him and coaxed tense, sore muscles into relaxing.

He would have been spooked by this sort of thing, before. It didn't matter whether it was done by a ghost or a flesh and blood human; Sherlock had been used to being starved of touch. Now…he found it comforting. _"...did you get what you wanted?"_

_"Yes."_ It was a sigh in Sherlock's ear. _"I'll check back later, but I have a pretty good idea of where things stand since I've been gone."_ And that meant it was time for either Jim to start meddling, or leave it alone. At least Sherlock could be somewhat certain that, should Jim wish to start meddling, he'd need ample time to build a new persona and reputation. Although, he did have Sebastian, and once he put Sebastian to work, that would happen very quickly. 

Sherlock went quiet - or, at least, he continued to think without directing specific thoughts directly toward Jim. His head was still a snarled tangle of emotions and ideas. Sherlock had quickly gone from morbid fascination, to fear and rage, to a hesitant truce... and now he wasn't sure where he'd arrived. He still didn't trust Jim, and it would be quite some time before the last lingering traces of anger disappeared from him for all that he'd endured, but other feelings had started to take root. They felt similar to the protectiveness he'd felt for his old flatmate.

Sherlock's previous focus had been entirely on survival, and then minimizing trauma and how much Jim might rip his life apart. A side concern had been added now: questions of survival aside, how happy could someone be when trapped inside another person?

_"Thinking too much, Sherlock.... The bane of our existence."_ Jim laughed softly. He could tell how relaxed he was making Sherlock, and he didn't stop. He seemed to enjoy it, too, even though it was such simple touches. _"I don't know if I'll be happy. I've never been 'happy' before. Not for any reasonable amount of time, anyway."_ Jim's warmth spread across Sherlock's cheek, like he was stroking a finger there. 

Sherlock could remember being happy when he was younger. Adolescence and adulthood hadn't been easy on him, as his descent into drugs and self-relegation to the fringes of society could attest. His life could almost be termed bi-polar - extreme highs and happiness when engaged in a case, followed by withdrawal and depression when he had nothing that was suitably challenging. It was far more tolerable than his time at university, or the solutions other people had proposed, but he wasn't able to ensure his own happiness even half the time.

_"...do you even have an idea of what you want, what would work? I had no notion that solving crimes would prove enjoyable until I tried it, for instance."_

Jim considered. _"When I worked. And when we played our game. Creation. Understanding. Without interruption. In those fleeting moments, I could find happiness."_ Sherlock could feel Jim burrow a little deeper, settling into his very bones. _"Now this, right here, I would call this contentment."_ Sherlock could hear the smile in that. Jim wasn't referring to being a ghost or working with Sebastian in any roundabout way he could. Somehow, Jim was still fond of him. 

Sherlock felt a small portion of his suspicions fracture away. A small smile graced his mouth. Jim had had them expend great effort to bring Sebastian here in one piece, and Sherlock still wasn't at ease about it or how Jim toyed with the man, but... the teasing wasn't the same at all. When Sebastian was the target, there was an edge of superiority, an almost cruel element to it. When Sherlock was the target, it was more playful, and often followed up by small, comforting touches that Sebastian didn't receive.

"...take me under," he murmured against his pillow. Sherlock had had enough of the waking world for the moment.

He felt a pulse of warmth, of a “gladly” almost voiced from Jim right before the pull. His eyes drooped and his muscles went slack and Sherlock was falling.


	13. Chapter 13

When Sherlock woke up inside the dream, there were arms wrapped around him and the bed he lay on was familiar. It was barely like he'd left the flat at all, except for the certainty of isolation. 

"Caught you," came a voice beside his ear and when he turned, he came face to face with Jim, smiling, hair smoothed back and coal suit pressed where it wasn't rumpled against Sherlock. 

The look Sherlock gave him was almost mournful, but for the small smile that hadn't disappeared from his lips. He tilted his head and considered Jim for a moment. 

When Sherlock moved again, it was forward. He closed the small gap between himself and Jim and pressed them together, partially recreating the sense that Jim had given him when he'd settled against Sherlock's bones. He wasn't following any trail of logic, but an impulse that had surfaced in him like a small, nagging itch that demanded satisfaction. Sherlock didn't want to stay away.

Since he was larger, he pushed Jim down into the pillows, but he could hear Jim laugh. He could feel the rise and fall of Jim's chest. He could feel the squirm of Jim's legs beneath his own. He could hear the slide of Jim's expensive suit and feel the smoothness of it. And Jim smelled, as he always did in these dreams, like Jim. He felt fingers tickle behind his ear and curl into his hair. 

"I know...." Jim sighed softly. If they could merge together, just far enough, perhaps then they could be...not happy, maybe, but at least content. 

Sherlock was tired, but this wasn't enough. They were close, enough to feel each others' body heat through layers of clothing, enough to touch one another, but it didn't satisfy the tension coiled somewhere within Sherlock. Sherlock pulled back just enough to look down at Jim in confusion. After a few more moments, a vague suspicion began to creep into place. The ideas and flickers of images that Sherlock's mind immediately conjured only furthered that suspicion.

Sherlock's gaze slid off to one side, embarrassed, but he slipped one hand between them and started to undo the buttons of Jim's suit. His fingers brushed against the smooth silk of a tie, and all Sherlock could remember was equally soft skin.

He felt Jim's chest rise with breath, with light laughter, beneath the thin layer of his shirt. Jim adjusted to loop his arms around Sherlock's neck to let him reach up and undo the tie and slip it free. When Sherlock paused, Jim canted his hips, drawing attention to that extra layer between them. When Sherlock hesitated, Jim shimmied out of his jacket and then smoothed his hands down Sherlock's shoulders and sides. Jim pulled Sherlock's shirt free before his hands went to work on the buttons. 

Jim's laugh meant he must have been amused or pleased. Or perhaps both. Sherlock couldn't spare the focus to consider it too closely. He wasn't even certain where he was intending to end up, or what he wanted to do, other than to remove the clothing separating them from each other. He fumbled with the small fastenings of Jim's trousers until he lost patience. One violent tug broke the zipper and sent a button flying. Sherlock tugged everything down just enough to be able to slide his hand across Jim's stomach and settle his palm into the groove just above his hip.

Jim sighed deeply. His head fell back but he didn't stop his work until Sherlock's shirt was slipping down his shoulders. He let his own shirt fall away and, with a bit more wriggling, toed off his shoes while Sherlock tugged his trousers down. He couldn't help another little laugh. "Impatient," he huffed in Sherlock's ear before he hooked his fingers into Sherlock's trousers as well. 

Jim had understood Sherlock's initial intent for their nakedness, that much was evidenced by the way he didn't immediately try to initiate more when the last of their clothes fell away. Still, he was half hard and he pressed up against Sherlock again, just as Sherlock had done to him. 

Sherlock clung to Jim and took a few minutes to just... be. Just to feel warm skin against skin, Jim's fingertips sliding over his spine, the way the lines of their bodies fit against each other and how much smaller Jim was in comparison. Sherlock forgot that so often, between the way Jim's projected dominance and personality filled a room, or how he filled Sherlock's skin without any problems. Sherlock always remembered Jim as bigger than he was, and their interactions within Sherlock's old memories only reinforced this by making it a partial reality.

Sherlock's eyes closed and he sighed against Jim's neck. This was better, but a vague sense of discontent still lingered. His hips shifted against Jim's and brought memories back to the surface. Tension only increased, and Sherlock now had confirmation for what the feeling was - some variant of lust, or longing. He hadn't quite recognized it because he'd never felt it before.

Jim's head turned, dark eyes moving over Sherlock's face with sly conviction. Fingers crept up Sherlock's neck to nestle in his hair and suddenly they were holding his head still and Jim was moving closer with a little smile on his mouth. That mouth pressed against Sherlock's, and Sherlock felt Jim's hips roll against his, mirroring the move Sherlock had made before with more intent. Jim's other hand slipped down his back and rolled his hips again until he could feel Sherlock's body react. 

A shiver rippled through Sherlock's frame, and he went from half-hard to rigid in a matter of seconds. The physical sensations were pleasant enough by themselves now, but meaningless and uninteresting without the added context. Sherlock wasn't reacting because nerve endings were sensing enjoyable touch and firing; he was reacting because of who was touching him and everything that was associated with that. 

This time wasn't about anger, or proving a point. That had gotten him past his own constructed barriers and insecurities, but now Sherlock wasn't left with any excuses to avoid examining his own motivations. He wanted this because, somewhere during these past few days, he'd decided that he wanted Jim. Trusted or not.

Without rebellious fury driving him, Sherlock's hands and mouth were more hesitant, almost shy. One hand tangled itself in Jim's hair and ruined the sleek lines it had made. Sherlock's hips shifted over until their cocks were side by side.

It was Jim who reached between them and took hold of both. His hand was wet with slick that, as far as Sherlock could tell, had come from nowhere. Jim had given up all pretense of needing to disentangle himself and go for a bedside table. He stroked in a languid twist of his hand as he pulled Sherlock tight with his other, and it helped that Sherlock wasn't letting go either. Jim's lips parted in little huffs of air and Sherlock felt his hips jerk wanting to buck forward. Jim wouldn't let go of Sherlock's gaze. He was maybe a little surprised Sherlock was allowing this, desiring this, even initiating it, but true to Jim's nature, he took full advantage. 

Sherlock wasn't unaffected; he couldn't be, not with both of them like this and Jim's hand sliding over their lengths, but his gaze was intent and fixed on Jim's face. Watching, looking for something... maybe questioning himself. He didn't dip closer to try to catch Jim's parted lips.

Too many thoughts raced through Sherlock's head. He still didn't trust Jim, not really. He didn't know for certain how much of what he did was an act, and how much might be real. He was gradually coming to the realization that it might... not matter. If it was an act, it was so convincing that it might as well have been real. So too, there was the fact that while they'd gotten off to a very rough start, Jim hadn't been abusive. He'd stopped when asked. He'd made concessions. He'd let Sherlock into his own head to view a memory that was precious to him. Sherlock wasn't treated with the callousness that Sebastian was targeted with.

Part of Sherlock whispered that that might change if Jim got everything that he wanted, but Sherlock doubted even that. He had decided that Jim wasn't lying about the fact that he viewed Sherlock and Sebastian very, very differently.

Sherlock's frame tensed, and before Jim could question it, Sherlock had rolled them until he was staring up at the smaller man.

Jim's eyes flashed and Sherlock could see a spark of excitement flare up in him. It was in his smile, the way it grew sharp, and his eyes, the way his needle like brows dipped toward inky irises. He planted a hand to steady himself on the bed while he rubbed his body up against Sherlock's. 

"What's this?" Jim's voice was little more than a rustle of air. His back bent as he got down lower, sliding his way up to Sherlock like he was stalking a small animal. "You like feeling me above you?"

Sherlock had paled a little; he wasn't immune to being intimidated by Jim, and he knew very well that, once the offer was made, he wouldn't be able to retract it. Possibly ever. He couldn't imagine that Jim would be satisfied with just once, not after spending years stalking him in the shadows. Sherlock swallowed, and watched dark eyes glinting with a predatory light glide closer. "I... was thinking." Sherlock couldn't get his brain to connect with his tongue quite right. "About... things."

"Go on." It was a miracle Jim hadn't commented on Sherlock's lack of articulation. Instead, his head tilted slowly, sizing Sherlock up and probably wishing he could read Sherlock's mind as easily as he did when they were outside of the dream. Then again, Jim had to have some suspicion considering Sherlock's fleeting thoughts regarding the relationship Jim had with Sebastian. Sherlock felt the glide of Jim's hand slow to a near stop. He applied tantalizing pressure with a light squeeze but refused to continue…apart for the swipe of his thumb across the delicate head of Sherlock's cock. 

Sherlock's hips jerked in response. He couldn't help it. He felt pinned in place by Jim's gaze, but the smaller man was waiting for him to speak. "I'm... not certain that I can, but-" But he'd felt jealous of a man Jim mistreated the moment he'd seen Sebastian's eyes dilate and his legs spread. He was thinking _now_ about how Jim had looked when they'd fucked - in pain at the beginning, but later... 

"...I was thinking of trying something different," Sherlock finished in whisper. He looked like the quintessential deer caught in headlights, frozen and unable to look away from Jim's face.

Jim stilled. Pressed so close together, Sherlock could feel goosebumps spread down his arms and see the way Jim's pupils dilated. Jim's hand tightened around the base of his own cock, holding back desire. He swallowed. His eyes closed. And that familiar smile touched his lips. When Jim opened his eyes again, his brow raised with them. "Different?" The pressure of his hand was back. The lightest squeeze. "I could give you many kinds of different... Pray tell, what gave you this idea?"

Sherlock was still half-hypnotized, torn between curious desire and fearful revulsion. Jim had seemed to enjoy what they’d done before, and obviously other queer men enjoyed it or they wouldn't engage in such activities, but Sherlock didn't know if that would hold true for himself. He was having trouble not squirming just considering what he was offering. "...you enjoyed it, that time I... lost my temper. And Sebastian, watching him react... I'm not interested in pain, but you've obviously done things to him."

Jim was beginning to see Sherlock wasn't going to say it. Not now, anyway. He leaned in closer, breath ghosting across Sherlock's jaw until Jim reached his ear. "And do you think you might like such things? It can indeed be extremely pleasurable. Especially here..." To prove his point Jim trailed the tips of his fingers down Sherlock's chest, leaving prickles of warmth behind them. He'd never done that before, not in the dream. It had always been very real, but it was in fact a dream and therefore should not have been surprising. "I won't lie, it always comes with some discomfort. But I can...distract you."

When Jim looked again, Sherlock's pupils were blown wide. He seemed right on the edge of refusal, but at the last moment he licked his lips and gained a hard edge to his features that Jim was beginning to recognize. Stubbornness, a refusal to back down. "...I think I want to try. But only if you agree that if I decide it's too much, you'll stop and we'll do something else."

Jim's lashes fell slowly as he blinked. Time clung to him, softening his smile, measuring his movements as he lifted his head back. "I agree," Jim whispered with a squeeze of his hand. His smile curled at Sherlock's intake of breath. It was his crooked one, the one that said he was infinitely pleased with being right where he was, and that, usually, something very bad was about to happen. Sherlock could only hope that wasn't the case this time. 

Jim let his hand slip free of their erections. He sat up on his knees, bracing over Sherlock. He moved slowly, stroking his hands down Sherlock's long legs and parting his knees so that Jim could sit between them. Sherlock could feel his fingers slick again. 

Sherlock's breathing was low and shallow. He was still hard, but he obviously had more than a small bit of anxiety about how this was going to turn out. He was still new to sex in general, and he'd just invited Jim to introduce him to sex that he had heard was painful... and it was what Jim wanted. Sherlock didn't know whether that boded well, because Jim would take care that Sherlock would want to do it again, or whether he'd signed himself up for a torture session.

A small part of him whispered that this wasn't just about curiosity, or proving to himself that he wasn't afraid, because he clearly was. That same part told him that he was considering this because of Jim. Because he was starting to get attached more than was wise. All that did was lead to heartache.

Jim certainly had to be aware of that. The man was a devil. And he looked like it, poised between Sherlock's legs with one soothing palm on Sherlock's stomach and the other pressing down over his balls, a touch more stimulation before it drew lower, pressing a sensitive spot underneath and watching Sherlock's little twitch of reaction, and lower still until Sherlock could feeling Jim pressing where he wanted. Jim was giving him a pointed look. If Sherlock was going to be damned for this, Jim made sure he knew he was damning himself. 

Sherlock was about to lose his nerve; he’d jumped when he felt slicked fingers finally reach their goal. He was about to call Jim off when he caught Jim's expression. 

It was one of those looks that had always made him dig his heels in: the tilted chin, sometimes with a raised eyebrow, and a stern or questioning glance that was never encouraging. The sort a teacher gave a student when he thought they were about to dig their own grave through a series of incorrect answers. Sherlock stared back at Jim, and the stubborn light came back into his eyes. He didn't want to be defeated so easily.

His brave face was ruined slightly when Jim's finger circled, applied a little pressure, and began to slip in. A muscle along Sherlock’s jaw quivered and he held his breath.

The initial push left a bit of a burn, but the lubrication helped as did Jim's attention. He moved slowly, but not so slow that it drew out the sensation of that burn. Once he was past that first ring of muscle, it was nearly gone. Jim lowered himself over Sherlock as he slid it in deeper. He'd let Sherlock watch at first, but now came the distraction of Jim's searching mouth, finding his own and locking them together. Sherlock could feel Jim pull back and push in, as slow and smooth as he had started, but he couldn't see it anymore. He stayed close when they broke apart and petted Sherlock's hair, keeping his attention on Jim as he continued to move. 

Distraction helped, but Sherlock was still intensely aware of what was going on. He couldn't fail to be. His body had never experienced this before and was in somewhat of a state of alarm about the new sensation. Sherlock's nervousness didn't help, and so his frame wasn't nearly as relaxed as it should have been for his own comfort.

Sherlock concentrated on keeping his breathing steady, rather than holding it. His gaze stayed fixed on Jim. He knew from his brief research that this was still the easy part - one finger didn't compare to the size of a cock. Whatever Jim was thinking, Sherlock wasn't able to guess; inky eyes held a glint of pleasure, but no hint of what lay beneath the surface.

Jim was being far too kind for that. Right now he had to be, just to get Sherlock through this. He moved his hip to rub up against Sherlock while his hand moved. Dark lashes fluttered as Jim let his weight ease against Sherlock, and he curled himself up to whisper in Sherlock's ear. "You'll like this." Jim pressed upward, searching until he saw Sherlock give a little jerk. He paused and did it again, so slowly, teasing pleasure into Sherlock's body through one tiny point inside of him.

Sherlock's breath hitched, then left him in an undignified whine, and his hips jerked again. He didn't know what to make of the feeling, which was certainly erotic, but also bizarre. Or perhaps it was only bizarre because all of this was new and he'd never had that particular portion of his anatomy stimulated before.

Jim wouldn't let up. He was being unusually gentle and slow, but when Sherlock glanced over he looked extremely pleased with the reactions he was coaxing out of Sherlock.

When he saw Sherlock looking, Jim was not hesitant to steal a kiss. He stroked again and drew out, and when he pushed inside again it was with two fingers. That little massage given Sherlock a pleasant taste of the experience if he went through with this. Jim seemed to know what he was doing, not only in the mechanics of it, but in the way he coaxed someone as hesitant and inexperienced as Sherlock. His pace was mindful of Sherlock's reactions. His patience was slow easy even when his own anticipation was obvious. 

But even though it was more focused on Sherlock than himself, Sherlock knew how much Jim had wanted this. 

Two fingers burned a bit more than just one, and understandably so. But it wasn't unbearable or truly, actively painful - simply uncomfortable. Sherlock had been through far, far worse. It was _what_ was being done that was more troubling, and something Sherlock was having a hard time not thinking about with a mild amount of panic. As many odd things as he got up to, they all seemed comparably normal to him when held up against this.

But he'd done this to Jim before, and Jim had enjoyed it.

Sherlock had to remind himself that Jim also seemed to disregard pain and be fairly enthusiastic about sex in general, which certainly would have weighted things in his favor. His worries weren't keeping him tense, though; Jim _did_ know what he was doing, and after a few minutes when the burning sensation lessened, Sherlock felt a slick third digit slip inside him. He closed his eyes and tried not to squirm.

"Relax, Sherlock," Jim soothed. "You've never been shy about the human body, nor any of its abilities, before." Even though Sherlock preferred dead bodies, doctors did this every day on live patients. Even John did this. And that was probably not the best thing to imagine. Jim's eyes dancing in front of Sherlock wouldn't allow his attention to waver for too long. Every time Sherlock winced or looked away, Jim made sure he was right there when Sherlock looked again. Finally, Jim let his fingers slip free. He levered himself up above Sherlock, pausing to look down and smile. "I am going to love seeing you like this," he whispered. 

A flush of color spread across Sherlock's cheeks, down his neck, and to his chest. This was his last chance to ditch out. He said nothing, but he needed something to hold onto, something to ground him. He ended up latching onto Jim's upper arms. He could feel Jim's legs between his thighs and knew what was coming, but he couldn't bring himself to look down. His eyes fixed on Jim's face, lit with the terror that tended to well up during every person's first time. It was a struggle with the unknown, and societal norms, and realization that his mental, emotional, and physical boundaries weren't as solid as he’d thought.

Jim leaned down, bringing them slightly closer before he pressed the head of his very hard cock against Sherlock. With one hand, he guided its way, pressing insistently farther and farther until the muscle breached and opened for him and then farther still as Jim slid inside. A gasp left his mouth and his features slackened with what must have been exquisite pleasure. Pleasure at the sensation. Pleasure at having Sherlock beneath him, tensing and wincing and all fluttering, heated muscle from the inside out. When Jim paused, another shuddering breath escaped his throat. His hands kneaded Sherlock's skin and he pressed his face to the crook of Sherlock's neck. 

Sherlock wrapped his arms around Jim and held on for dear life. He hadn't missed the change in Jim's expression, but Jim's pleasure was secondary right now. Sherlock's attention was entirely focused on the heated pressure inside of him and the burning sensation that had accompanied it, even after Jim had prepared him. Right at the moment, it wasn't particularly pleasant, and beyond that Sherlock couldn't help but draw parallels between it and something Jim had done a couple of times now. Penetration was, in a way, like an uncomfortable version of the way he felt when Jim slid underneath his skin and settled up against his bones, but for the fact that this was _very_ focused on one particular location.

When Jim caught his breath again, he held onto Sherlock, who had somehow made himself smaller. The way Jim's arms cradled him at the same time he forced the sharp, burning pain in farther was a horrible contradiction. Just like Jim always was, whispering words of love and greatness while he pushed Sherlock off a ledge. Always pushing, further and farther. Until he was buried completely. Until Sherlock trembled against him. 

Jim ran his hands up the smooth skin of Sherlock's sides. He pressed kisses into Sherlock's neck, even while Sherlock held him in a vice like grip. He didn't move to pull out or otherwise, simply stayed like that, caressing Sherlock's tense frame. 

Sherlock didn't think this was going to work. Jim's fingers had been odd, but he'd been able to curl them upwards and give him a bit of pleasure that way. Sherlock just felt... filled, and uncomfortable, and embarrassed. Even though no one was going to see them. This was different than walking around in just a sheet or nude, or dealing clinically with dead bodies.

He'd gone a bit soft, but didn't push Jim off him. He was afraid to let go. Jim's kisses and small touches worked a little to distract him, and slowly Sherlock could feel his body, if not relaxing, at least loosening up and stretching to accommodate Jim. "...how did you do this?" Sherlock whispered.

Jim's laugh was a huff of air on Sherlock's neck. "I knew what it can be like." One of Jim's hands slid between their stomachs to find and squeeze Sherlock's cock, just to bring some of the pleasure back. "It gets better. You have to get used to it. Your body has to learn how to open up to me. Your muscles relax...and you'll begin to feel that stimulation again. When I move." But Jim wasn't moving. Not yet. He was stroking Sherlock and waiting for him to relax just a little more. And maybe Jim enjoyed it, too, being the direct cause of Sherlock's body battling with his will. 

Sherlock couldn't ignore the pressure inside him, but Jim's touch was more familiar. And wasn't that a strange thought, that he'd internalized sexual touching enough now that it seemed normal and comforting in comparison. Sherlock turned his head slightly, but all he could see was sleek, black hair. Gradually, he gave up his death grip on Jim's back and let his hands gravitate to a more normal embrace. Even that was self-conscious; Sherlock knowingly put his trust in what he believed was an illusion, hoping that, if it wasn't true, at least it wouldn't shatter and cut him to ribbons. If Jim really only regarded him as a prize or a more sophisticated toy, Sherlock didn't want to see the confirmation. He knew that Jim's acting skills were equal to the task.

It took a few minutes, but Jim's stroking finally teased Sherlock back to an aroused state.

Jim's mouth latched onto the side of his neck. The more relaxed Sherlock became, the more Jim showed signs of his own restraint. Tensing muscles under Sherlock's hands, hips wanting to press forward, body straining, breath deep... Sherlock could feel it, even though Jim barely moved an inch. "It helped..," Jim breathed, "that it was you. I don't...do that for just anyone." His tongue and teeth nipped lightly over the remaining bruise. Jim fixated on it, but he didn't try to bring Sherlock any more pain. Not right now. 

A shudder ran all the way through Sherlock's body and he clenched around Jim. 

Sherlock didn't know what he was doing anymore. He was losing himself to a dead man - his bodily integrity, pieces of his mind, his sexuality and virginity, and possibly even the few moral principles he'd had. Jim's internet browsing that afternoon would eventually lead to harm, casualties, and Sherlock hadn't merely neglected to stop him, but had watched it happen... to try to learn more about Jim.

Jim's tongue ran along his jugular and Sherlock gasped. His hips tilted up of their own accord.

Finally Jim moved. It started with a shudder and then he rolled his hips, not too far, but enough to push back into Sherlock and make both of them gasp. Sherlock at the burn and Jim at the perfect, tight heat. He did it again and gradually he began to build up a rhythm, as slow as he could go. It brushed the sweet spot inside Sherlock just barely, and only when Jim tilted his hips to roll back in, but it was something. Jim's teeth were clenching. His breath was hot on Sherlock's neck. He was making little sounds as if he were trying to restrain them as much as his thrusts, but Sherlock could feel the grip of his hands, one stroking, the other tight at the back of Sherlock's neck. Almost too tight. 

Sherlock was trying to relax. Strangely, the hand on the back of his neck felt simultaneously threatening and comforting. Small amounts of pleasurable stimulation helped, and after a few moments Sherlock clenched his jaw and tried to shift himself, fully intent on calling the experiment off if things didn't improve within the next few minutes.

He tilted his hips to change the angle, and suddenly he was getting more than just a brief, faint touch when Jim thrust forward. Jim was still slow, tightly controlled, but after a few repetitions Sherlock hardened noticeably in Jim's hand.

Jim's head came up, his devilish smile spread wide and eyes gleaming. "That's it." 

The hand around Sherlock squeezed tighter and Jim thrust just a little deeper. His teeth showed when he caught Sherlock's breath hitch from something other than pain. Jim didn't stop now. Sherlock could tell from the strain of his body that he was still holding back, holding back a lot, but Jim was getting what he'd wanted, and when Jim got was getting what he wanted, he had all the patience in the world. 

"Amazing, that you would do this for me, Sherlock," Jim whispered lovingly. "Not just someone like you. _You._ You're really starting to care, aren't you?"

Sherlock shot him a tortured look. He was too compromised, physically and emotionally, to be able to shield and pretend to be indifferent, even though Jim couldn't read his mind here. Jim had taken pieces of Sherlock and bound them to himself, and Sherlock couldn't help but feel now.

It was completely unwise to have this sort of attachment to a man like Jim. Sherlock was certain it was going to irreparably damage him in the end. He couldn't stop at this point, though, or stop hoping that Jim might reciprocate. Getting away from this would require that Sherlock get away from Jim, and that was an impossibility.

Jim's words were too probing, and Sherlock couldn't bear to look him in the eye. His gaze slid sideways.

"Don't worry," Jim breathed in between thrusts, "I know the feeling." Even though his words conveyed sentiment, he gave a sharp thrust. It followed with a groan, and soon Jim was picking up the pace, finally letting himself move like he had wanted since this had begun. His knees dug into the bed and his hips rolled in deepening motions. Sherlock could hear his name on Jim's tongue, nearly too soft to be intelligible, but it couldn't have been anything else. He drew up and caught Sherlock's mouth with his own. 

The times Jim must have fantasized about this act were countless, and it came through in his every touch. He looked at Sherlock, even touched Sherlock, like he wanted to devour him. 

Sherlock finally looked back, and Jim's hunger riveted him in place and summoned, if not matching desire, then an echo of it. Jim was moving quicker, but it seemed to matter less now - Sherlock felt looser, and the burning sensation had faded into the background. His focus instead was on Jim's hand on his cock, Jim's lips against his, and a hungry rhythm that brought a spike of pleasure every few beats and made it seem like Jim wanted... everything. Wanted to crawl inside him and claim him completely and thoroughly on every level, even in a dream. That thought, and the feel of Jim sliding in and out, and the idea of what they must look like...

Sherlock moaned softly into Jim's mouth and did his best to hold on.

Jim could have been likened to a parasite. He's invaded Sherlock's mind. He'd made his home there. He'd invaded Sherlock's body in the waking world, and every time he ran into a barrier, he found a way to push past it. Like now, penetrating Sherlock's body in their dream world. Soon he would find a way to invade Sherlock's thoughts here as well. And he was already trying, luring Sherlock into admitting Jim was getting to him. Admitting that he _wanted_ Jim. 

Jim was the worst kind of parasite, one that made its host think he was in love.

Or perhaps not quite love, but suffused in sufficient emotional attachment to satisfy Jim's ends anyway. Sherlock wasn't finding this sort of sex as pleasant as other acts Jim had coaxed him into, but it was very different in a psychological sense. Jim was taking every advantage of Sherlock's confused exploration of his own identity, his relative innocence in some spheres of life, and the loneliness and desperation that had built throughout the detective's life and came to a head when John Watson moved on. Part of Sherlock had decided, rather than to despair at the trap he'd found himself in, to consider whether or not Jim might be a satisfactory replacement as a companion. Such thoughts were making him bend to accommodate Jim in ways he'd never have done before, but which neatly mirrored the ways he'd altered himself when trying to keep John with him.

And Jim welcomed every little bit of it. He ate it up, like the way he was trying to devour Sherlock's neck, kneading the flesh of his back, his hips, his thighs, as he thrust inside over and over again. Jim's arms wrapped around Sherlock's lower back and lifted his hips, bettering their angle. That dark head descended down Sherlock's torso, nipping and biting like Jim couldn't get enough. He never left Sherlock's cock for long. Every time he came back, he squeezed and started the rhythm again. And every time he looked at Sherlock, it was like Jim was trying to score the vision of him inside his mind. 

Sherlock began to feel completely overwhelmed. Part of him wanted to push Jim off him, out of him, and to retreat into himself. Part of him reacted to Jim's predatory intensity in a way he'd only been partially aware of in other parts of his life. It was a thrill, of the same sort whenever he'd cornered a killer and risked his life to play with them - risking poison, gunfire, knives, explosives, any number of things. The other criminals had always proving disappointing in the end, when Sherlock outsmarted them and they left their pedestal status to become ordinary, boring humans again.

Jim wasn't ordinary or boring and, at least for the moment, he didn't want Sherlock to die. Sherlock was losing for once, but not in a way that would end his life. It was still humiliating, but his skin felt like it was alive with electric current, humming just beneath the surface. He felt like he was being unraveled.

And Jim was wrapping the thread of him around himself, tying them together. Jim whispered Sherlock's name lovingly as he did so to let him know that he would be safe, for now, that in this moment he could relax and give in to the experience and the sensations. Jim was in control, and though Sherlock had often feared he would be a sadistic master, he could also be a devoted one. It could have been likened to an act. Jim must have been this way for any number of the personalities he'd adopted to slip into to get to the lives of unsuspecting people, but this time he was still himself when he held back. 

Some portion of Sherlock was still concerned with self-preservation. The same part that had argued with himself every time he'd gone down the path of self-destruction, that had driven his will to claw himself back up from addiction and hopeless situations and even death itself, was what surfaced and began pushing Jim away. 

Sherlock's head turned away from Jim's mouth, and his hands pushed back against his chest and arms. "...stop."

Time stopped with the command. All but Jim's heart beating under Sherlock's hand. There had been a gasp on Jim's lips as he froze, and now his body was straining, rigid against and inside of Sherlock, the hardness of bone and sinewy muscle and heat intertwined with his body. Jim's eyes peered into his own. Jim's hand shifted on his cheek. They were so close Sherlock could feel the warmth of it every time Jim exhaled, proving he was...if not alive, then real. 

"What?" Jim broke the silence. 

Sherlock was trying to hold onto himself with every fiber of his being. He'd done a great many foolish things in his life, often with the best intentions, and this seemed to be another of them. He couldn't give himself over to any other master but himself, and while he thought he'd be able to handle not knowing if Jim was putting on an act or not, it hadn't proven true. The act was turning out to be more pleasant, in the end, than he'd expected it to be, and his skin still prickled with gooseflesh, but Sherlock was deeply unhappy. "I can't do this."

Jim's brows raised ever so slightly. He wore a pleasantly inquisitive expression when he asked, "Why not?" 

Sherlock could not deny any longer that his body was enjoying it. The pleasure Jim gave him far outweighed the pain and they both could see it. Jim, though insistent, had been ever so gentle. His dark eyes probed Sherlock, so used to getting inside his head now even though here Jim couldn't. He could, however, tell that it was something in Sherlock's psyche that held him back. 

Sherlock wasn't able to keep his expression impassive. He was too far gone to be able to pretend at serenity and dispassion about Jim. He did, however, manage to keep his gaze steady and his voice from cracking. "I think you know. I can't give you everything without getting something equal back in return, and we're not equal. I've fought against being controlled my whole life. I can't... take this. I can't give you a leash no matter how much you pretend at gentleness, because I can feel that it's empty, even if I can't see it."

"You want me to give you myself, show you my weaknesses...." Jim hummed softly. His pink tongue darted out to wet his lips, such a delicate motion on such an indestructible creature. "I have a suggestion. If you want to know me. If you want to be my equal.... Do you remember what I said on that rooftop? What you've denied before, and you've refused to consider? I said we were the same. You and I. Instead of taking in my weaknesses, you should take on my strengths." Jim's fingers stroked his temple. "The things we could share if we were one...."

"Learn to adopt so many masks that I'm incapable of peeling them off anymore? Not knowing who I am?" Sherlock gave a short, bitter laugh. "I'm well on my way to the latter already, but no. I'm not going to pretend to that level."

But there was something else in Jim's words, hidden between the ordered flow of syllables. Sherlock gave him a sharp look, the effect only somewhat ruined by the fact that he was pinned beneath the smaller man and exquisitely aware of where they were still joined together. "I think you want to be very careful about what you encourage me to do."

"And why is that? Because you'll try to control me?" Jim smiled. "Perhaps you don't understand me quite as well as I'd hoped. If you were me, I would have no need to control you. I control myself only insofar as it is necessary. So that I may learn to form the skills in which to control others. You don't need to wear the masks I wore. But, Sherlock..." Jim closed his eyes. He drew closer, pressing his body against Sherlock again, pressing his head to Sherlock's temple. "Join me. _Help_ me, and I will open for you." 

"I have already _helped_ you," Sherlock finally hissed. "You say you won't need control if I become subsumed, but I won't let you consume me until nothing exists but you. Like a virus, burning out its host to copy itself. I can't give up my existence like that, and I doubt you'd be happy to be alone again, with only yourself for company."

Sherlock pushed at Jim again, but the smaller man clung tight to him. He was starting to feel cornered and angry again. If Jim kept pushing him, it was only a matter of time before he snapped.

" _No_ ," Jim hissed, "You will not lose yourself. You will not lose any part of yourself. It's already inside you. It always has been, the potential for more. And I will not live in stagnation, opening up all my _feelings_ ," he spat the word, "for you while we sit in your little hideout of a flat and _rot_." Jim's teeth clenched. Sherlock stared back in defiance. "You want your old life back," Jim tried again, this time more softly. "What about it was so much better than the one you could have with me? You want freedom? You want to be out from under your brother's thumb? You want excitement, challenge? You want to be needed?" Jim did seem strangely open when he said it. It was something in his expression. He was talking about what John would have called terrible things, if not outright. But that's what Jim's life was. And still something in Jim wanted to merge with Sherlock. Some quality of Sherlock's had always called to him. 

Sherlock blinked, and when he looked back at Jim there was an odd, hawklike quality to his eyes - intent, calculating, angry. Jim wouldn't let go of him, so Sherlock braced himself and flipped them over. He pinned Jim's hands and moved himself back until they were no longer interlaced. "I cannot _have_ my old life back," Sherlock growled. "I'm well aware it's an impossibility now. But I'm not going to exchange Mycroft's thumb for yours. I'm not going to make all of the compromises to please you. I have no choice about many things, and I'm trying to make the best of that and cope, and you keep pushing for more. One more box to check off on your list."

Sherlock's grip on Jim's wrists tightened and his mouth curled up into a snarl. "I was trying this for you, you know. For all the difference that made. You don't compromise in return. I think you need to be very careful not to mistake my sentimentality as a weakness."

"I am dead, Sherlock. I can have none of those things. The only way I will ever live is through you. Is that not compromise enough?" Jim stilled under Sherlock's hands, his body almost slack. Jim's hands wrapped gently around Sherlock's forearms where they held him down. But Jim had never been physically aggressive, at least not in Sherlock's presence. His gentleness was not an act of submission. "Having you under me was not a weakness. And having you above me was not a weakness of mine. That memory I gave you, what I felt then at losing you, _that_ was a weakness." 

"Living through me is a compromise to yourself, not to me. It's an unasked for cost that I don't get to refuse, as the price to keep living." Sherlock had seen too many dangerous men to mistake a lack of physical aggression for safety. Gentleness didn't always stay that way. "I am trying. I have let you take control for periods of time. I have let you have your pet tiger back. I have let you have computer access, _knowing_ what that means, and doing it anyway, because I know very well how painful everything can get, and because it gives you another space to live in."

"I have even let you have _me_." Sherlock bit off the word. "In ways I never fathomed giving anyone permission. I have done my best to adjust and explore this. You cannot tell me to pity you for being dead, for choosing death, and tell me that we are even when you have inflicted such costs upon me."

Jim stared. And then he laughed. It started as a sigh, half a smile, but it was definitely a laugh. "Oh, you got me. Taking what isn't mine. Not regretting it. Who would do such a heinous thing?" Jim laughed again. "But the fact of the matter remains that I'm down to nothing, whether it was given to you or not. I can't offer to be your next little John Watson, it's not in my programing. I can offer you all the skills I possessed before in life. That is what I can give you. The only question that matters now is....what is it you want from me?"

"It isn't skills that I want," Sherlock murmured. His eyes had gone half-lidded in thought, staring into Jim like he wanted to reach in and find... something. Something he could read, know, hold onto with certainty. "I don't want you to be John, or even pretend to be him. You're nothing alike, and I don't care for that sort of falseness. I think that's the problem. You're fixated on your goal, and your conviction that you'll show me a better, more satisfying life, and you're expecting that to be your payment. For me to be satisfied with that. That might have been enough, years ago, but it isn't anymore."

"Hmm, and I'm still not hearing what it is, exactly, that you do want. What experience can I offer you that you do desire, Sherlock? Do you want me to go away and leave you in peace again? You'd wanted that from the start after all. Do you want me to love and care about you and never ever leave?" Jim pouted in mockery. But then he calmed a little. "Do you want me to stop wanting all of you, everything that I can get? You're the only interesting thing in my existence now. I don't see that happening any time soon."

Sherlock went silent. One of his hands let go of Jim's arm and drifted to his face - the same delicate features he'd traced over early on in this, learning by touch and sight and trying to accept his new reality. They were very alike in some ways, he and Jim, and completely alien in others. "...the second option would be preferable," he admitted quietly. "But also seems unlikely. I suppose I could settle with you wanting me as a person, and not a subordinate extension of yourself, or an object to consume and use."

"That's what people _are_ ," Jim lifted his head and hissed. "If I care for you, it is because you are more like me than you are like them." He fell back among the blankets and looked at Sherlock. "Do you see why I had never considered Sebastian a partner, and why I wanted one in you?" Jim was watching him like he hoped Sherlock would understand. He looked a little more like Richard Brook then, with open eyes and pinched expression, even though the cunning, manipulative air was more part of Jim's nature than anything else. 

"I can see why, yes." Sherlock ignored Jim's change of expression, and his eyes followed his fingers as they trailed down Jim's neck or stroked through his hair. Small details were real and solid, beautiful and not subject to the same sort of manipulation techniques the face or body were capable of as a whole. "What happened to you? No one is born like this, not even people like us. Things happen, and we change to defend against those things in the future. There's more to this than simply seeing people as stupid, pointless automatons."

"Nothing _happened_ to me. _I_ happened." Jim's teeth flashed at that. Before he forced it off his face. A sigh and a laugh followed. "You know about Carl Powers. And yourself. But if you're looking for a direct cause you will be woefully disappointed." Jim laid himself out, spreading his arms. "I didn't have a family like the Holmes', and I didn't have a big brother like yours. All things considered, I had a fairly normal childhood. I was just a bit, shall we say, different." 

Sherlock considered this. A poorer financial situation, a less sheltered childhood, and a lack of intellectual stimulation by an elder sibling to hold off the boredom might have been all the explanation needed. Sherlock had certainly seen enough criminals and killers from perfectly normal backgrounds where small stresses, small lacks of some needed thing, were what caused fractures that surfaced later in life. "...yes, I can imagine. Trying to interact with other people didn't go well for me, either."

Jim reached up, took hold of Sherlock's wrists, and drew him down. "Carl was the first person I'd ever killed. But I was perfectly capable of it far earlier. As I got older, I had no reason to stop and every reason to continue living outside the law. For the sake of a challenge, for the sake of my desires, for the sake of my boredom, and for opportunity and financial stability... I was already a killer, but I took care of that bully and he wasn't coming back. I could have stopped with him. You... That beautiful little boy who showed up at the pool, you stayed with me. There were no other boys like you, but....well. As I said, I learned more about myself and my desires, and I saw no reason to live a lawful life."

"I don't think I ever learned enough about myself," Sherlock muttered softly. Which was probably why he had drifted aimlessly through life. He'd not fit in with other people no matter what he tried, whether it was conventional schooling and a career track, or falling off the grid entirely into a haze of lawlessness and drugs. He'd met plenty of other misfits in the shadowy corners of that underworld, but he hadn't fit or been wanted there either. "I never figured out what I wanted, really, other than to fit someplace, and that never happened. Being an Independent Consulting Detective was the best I could come up with, but even then it was more a matter of being tolerated because I was useful."

"And now I tell you that you belong with me, and you fight me. Do you compare me to all those people you knew before?" Jim's hands ran down Sherlock's back. Jim was still warm, even though the room around them had cooled significantly with their moods. He had curled against Sherlock, seeking more warmth for himself whether consciously or not. Other than that, the room remained the same, lacking the usual drone of the street below and other sounds that subtly indicated they were in the real world. 

"It's not just a matter of belonging," Sherlock sighed. He leaned down until their foreheads touched, but shut his eyes. He could see Jim's handprints in his mind, heated and trailing a red glow behind him while they stroked down his back. "I don't know how I can make you understand. It's not enough for you to want to possess me like an object, or fuck me, or drag me back with you to resume the life you left behind. There's more to it than putting me into that picture like a jigsaw piece that just barely fits into an empty space."

Jim was quiet for a while before he seemed to come to a conclusion. "Think of what you know of me. If I could say to anyone that I cared for them, it would be you. But I'll never say it to anyone, not in the least because I can't speak anymore." Jim's smile was wry, but he looked over at Sherlock and it fell. He had to know that Sherlock was on very unstable ground, and that Jim's words would sting. But it was an honest statement, at the very least. 

Sherlock was, in many ways, an overgrown child. He'd always tended towards childishness, but Mycroft's overprotective behavior had secured the trait - Mycroft had grown up far, far too quickly in order to ensure that Sherlock would never have to. It was a choice he probably regretted later when having to deal with the aftermath.

Sherlock didn't respond in words. His expression fell and he curled around Jim, burying his face against Jim's neck. He didn't seem to notice his limbs beginning to slowly shorten, inch by inch. Sherlock was too overwhelmed with his own crisis of being that seemed a long way from a solution.

He could feel Jim shift in surprise, however, not expecting to see Sherlock so small again. Especially now. But Jim's arms were wrapping around him and Jim was pressing him close without hesitation. Jim's coldness, his insensitive smile, it all fell away. He pressed his lips to Sherlock's head and closed his eyes. 

If Sherlock had been looking for a way to make Jim feel, his subconscious had found it. A part of Jim was back at that pool when he saw Sherlock so small, before he missed the chance to follow that boy and change their lives forever. 

Sherlock stayed close. He no longer felt particularly unsafe when they were like this, not anymore... and he was trapped in this respect, too. If he rejected Jim entirely in a fit of self-protection, what was going to be left? Jim wouldn't leave, _couldn't_ leave, and Sherlock would still be trapped in the same predicament... but without any comfort at all. "...do you think that's part of it, what we are? Wanting things we can't have."

"That's a part of the entire human existence, isn't it?" Jim's voice was much softer now and his fingers stroked through Sherlock's hair. "But yes, definitely for us. Because, in our _brilliance_ , we have the means to pursue what we want. And hope can be a horrible thing." Jim's fingers turned Sherlock's head up to look at him, just to see Sherlock. His face was soft, and it didn't look like a mask. Even though with Jim it was impossible to tell, it was difficult to think that it was one. 

Sherlock met Jim's gaze with great hesitance. His own grey eyes were unusually sharp and bright with tears, rimmed with red. It was the sorrow of a life of dashed hopes, of dealing with humanity that feared differences and punished deviants accordingly. Sherlock, and his brother to a greater extent, had lived life keeping people and things at a distance to try to avoid such a sorrow, but Sherlock had been too tempted by loneliness and a desire for acknowledgement and validation. "...hope is terrible," he agreed.

Jim's thumb stroked Sherlock's cheek. The tears didn't fall, but they were there. The bedroom began to fall away, but the warmth and the softness of the bed beneath them remained. They were sinking through the years of Sherlock's flat, through memories of his home, his bedroom, the Holmes' den, anywhere that was a safe and a comfortable place, until they began to sink through Jim's mind. Sherlock saw glimpses of lavish hotels, tropical weather, cabins in the snow and warm fireplaces, changing cultures in the details of each bedroom, even, strangely, a few glimpses of the homes of normal families that Jim could not have possibly stayed in as himself, but perhaps one of his personas, and back and back until they encountered the skyline of Dublin, and then the rolling fields of Ireland glimpsed through windows, out farther into the land and through increasingly modest homes, until it all began to fade away into the dark. Until there was only Jim and little Sherlock and the bed. They were somewhere very deep now, somewhere very quiet, and so when Jim leaned down to press a kiss to Sherlock's cheek, Sherlock could just hear the words he whispered. A secret to be shared with no one.

"I do care."

Sherlock turned his head to lay his ear against Jim's chest. The black silence around them was a little disorienting, even frightening, but Jim's skin was warm and his heartbeat was steady. Even that was an illusion - if the government didn't have Jim's body stashed away in cold storage for some purpose or another, he was in the ground somewhere, decomposing. 

That thought was more disturbing than Sherlock had thought it would be. His grip on Jim tightened, even though that wouldn't do any good. "...I don't know where to go from here."

"You live, and I survive. Until we find another way to kill me, I'll only crawl deeper and deeper inside you." Jim's voice was gentle. He knew he would cause Sherlock pain by his very nature, but right then he didn't want to. Not when Sherlock was wrapped in his arms, so small, the essence of one of Jim's very first, fragile hopes. Jim kissed Sherlock to say he was sorry. Down this deep, everything they said was private. Even though no one would have overheard their dreams before. 

"I did mean it, before. I don't want to kill you." Sherlock turned his head to look back up at Jim, small brows knit together in concern. Part of what Jim had said stuck in the back of his mind like a splinter, aching to be picked at. "...do you still want to die? You still feel like this existence is so terrible that you would rather not continue anymore?"

Jim's eyes didn't glitter anymore when he looked at Sherlock. There was no light. It was a miracle they could see one another in the darkness around them, but in the space between them, the world was just bright enough to make out Jim's feature. "If I can't find stimulating pursuits, then perhaps. And...if I...if I can't find something 'more', as you said, between us, then perhaps." Jim's fingers wouldn't stop caressing his skin. Any place Jim could touch, they roamed without purpose other than to feel.

"I thought you said you couldn't. And I thought you said you couldn’t care, either," Sherlock pointed out unhappily. His eyes closed and he leaned into the touches anyway. He was getting used to such things, and the heat and sensation were an undeniable piece of evidence that he wasn't alone. He'd spent a lot of energy struggling against Jim's theft of his privacy, but not feeling alone was extremely valuable at the moment.

And just more proof to Sherlock about how far he'd let his emotions get entangled with this man. They were discussing Jim's incapacity to love, and the possibility of a murder suicide, and Sherlock still wanted Jim's hands on his skin.

"I said I couldn't say it." Jim said quietly. His palm rested on the back of Sherlock's head, fingers curling idly in soft strands of hair. Like Sherlock had looked at him before, taking in detail by detail to enjoy his beauty but avoiding the whole, Jim was now turning that gaze to Sherlock. His dark eyes danced over Sherlock's fine brow, down the side of his cheek, glanced away from long lashes that held piercing questions in the eyes beneath. "Do you know what it took to be me? I bet you can imagine. It was much the same as what it took to be you. Sentiment doesn't fit." Jim paused. "And still you got under my skin anyway."

"Sentiment isn't supposed to fit, at least. It's something I've always had a problem with." Either too much, or too little. One hurt Sherlock himself when other people invariably disappointed him, while the other got him painted as a monster or eerily robotic. "I don't know how much of my head you've explored without me. I'm sure you'll find the memories where I was taunted about it. Including when my dog died. I was supposed to learn to be less attached and less sensitive, but it didn't quite work out that way."

"Yes, I'd gathered as much," Jim smiled and brushed his thumb down Sherlock's cheek. Jim's persona wasn't just softer, he was also incredibly tactile when Sherlock was a child. "Even when you grew up, I could tell you grew attached to people. Not often, and only one at a time, Dr. Watson being the most successful. But, how did he put it, you're a 'drama queen'?" Jim chuckled. "You have a need to be appreciated. And I, well...remaining unattached came far more naturally to me. I needed my work to be appreciated, I needed it to top all others, and that was what I stayed alive for." 

"...I don't really care about my work, mostly," Sherlock admitted. Work was a distraction, and also a means of proving himself, but not often the focus in and of itself. John had mostly guessed right when he'd accused Sherlock of doing things to prove his was clever. It was an added benefit that justice was served when he completed a case, but helping people wasn't what drove Sherlock to do it. "Or most people. They're frustrating and get in the way. I suppose I sound stupid, wanting people around and also wanting them to go away at the same time."

Jim paused his stroking to wrap his arms around Sherlock. They were still naked, but in the dark and amidst the blankets and the silence, it didn't seem to matter much. Jim enjoyed the feeling of Sherlock against him. "You should rest," Jim whispered. "And I will keep you like this, down here, for as long as I can." All traces of his maliciousness were gone. 

Sherlock glanced up at Jim and stared for a second before he finally nodded. He desperately needed uninterrupted sleep, both for his body and his mind. He certainly didn't have boundless trust in Jim for all things, but he had trust enough for this. Jim had kept his word and stopped when Sherlock had asked him to. Sherlock felt safe enough to sleep like this without worrying Jim would take advantage.

Sherlock leaned up to press a kiss to Jim's lips, then settled back down beside him.

Jim's body was warm and his arms were solid. He could wrap himself around Sherlock even better than the blankets he pulled up around their shoulders. Though the silence at this depth of Jim's mind had been unnerving at first, it was now comfortable. 

Jim had taken them far away from the real world, a place no one could see or touch or force them out of. Sebastian could keep himself occupied with the work Jim had started. Lestrade would continue to follow dead leads and Mycroft would join in the same. 

The world would turn outside their cocoon, but for now, Sherlock could rest.


	14. Chapter 14

Days passed, and Sherlock grew more and more tense. Watching Jim and Seb work on networking proved to be too boring to watch when he was uninvolved, and Sherlock's cell phone stayed conspicuously silent. Either no cases had come up, or Lestrade was purposefully keeping him away from them to try to force him to rest. For all Greg and John knew, Sherlock was in a fragile state of mind.

Looking up at Seb's hunched form curled up on the sofa with Jim's laptop, Sherlock had to concede that he _was_ in a fragile state of mind... but that didn't negate his boredom. He wished he could sneak into Sebastian's room without the man noticing; the gunman had to have several weapons that Sherlock hadn't had the opportunity to take apart before.

Eventually, Sebastian began to glance at him across the room while Sherlock was tinkering with some old experiment or shuffling through his notes. He might have been putting the gunman on edge with his restlessness, but Sherlock got the distinct impression that something Jim typed had something to do with Sebastian's interest. Not in the least because Jim would occasionally drift back to Sherlock and settle inside of him, sometimes creating a soothing sensation, sometimes simply assessing his mental state. Or Sherlock could only assume. Jim knew Sherlock didn't want to be involved in his work, and so hadn't offered again. But even Sherlock knew that whatever Jim was doing wouldn't remain limited to networking forever. 

One day when Sherlock was particularly restless, Jim settled under his skin and asked, quite bluntly, "How bored do you have to be before I can interest you in a dose of heroin?"

Sherlock stiffened. _"...what do you mean?"_ It was pointless to deny that he had drugs and various chemicals secreted throughout the flat. Sherlock knew they were there, so Jim knew they were there by extension. Drugs were an option that Sherlock considered every now and again, particularly now that John was out of the flat, but it had seemed entirely too dangerous to risk dosing himself with Jim lurking in the background and, now, Sebastian living in John's old room.

He also never knew when Lestrade might insist on a random drug test. They had become less frequent over the years, but never ceased entirely. _"As much as I would like to stop feeling my brain grinding itself to pieces in ennui, I was under the impression that your pet is interested in the vulnerable. From what I've deduced, at any rate. He's unsettling enough when I have all my wits and coordination about me."_

Jim laughed. _"As interesting as it would be by proxy, you do have a fair point. Poor Seb is getting just as restless as the both of us."_ One glance to the large man on the couch confirmed Jim's words. Moran's body was as relaxed as it could get but he had barely moved all day. He exercised as much as he could with his own bodyweight and the limited space of the flat in the early mornings and late nights, but usually he did it out of Sherlock's sight. _"You sure I can't interest you in a jaunt around town...just see what havoc we could cause?"_

_"...and just what, precisely, do you have in mind?"_ They all knew going out with Sebastian was a risk. The authorities by now had assumed he was out of the country, but Moran's face was still fresh in a lot of people's minds, and there were cameras and eyes everywhere. Sherlock wasn't against a little adventure, but not if it involved getting arrested and having MI6 show up with his brother to demand to know why he was running around with a bio-terrorist.

_"Oh I don't know. Hit up a pub, see how much we can wrangle out of a few games of cards with the locals. Find a nice little club and dance the night away."_ Jim snickered lazily, _"I would so love to see you dance in person. Whatever takes our fancy."_ Sherlock could feel the prickle of Seb's gaze across the room again, and sure enough blue eyes were glancing at him over the screen of the laptop. The man could probably tell Sherlock and Jim were conversing, if only because Jim had disappeared from his screen. 

_"You can't be serious."_ Sherlock was fairly certain Jim was being facetious, but he could never tell. He might have been entirely serious about going out in public so conspicuously, for at least some of his suggestions. Jim had a reckless streak in him at times, but always indulged within carefully controlled parameters - like his theatrical break-in at the Tower of London and his engineered acquittal. Sherlock's gaze flickered to Moran uneasily and found the man staring back at him with his unsettling blue eyes. 

_"I am. Unless you have a better idea."_ Sherlock felt Jim curl up inside him, prodding places in his mind with a very unusual sensation. _"We could dance in the sitting room perhaps. How loud do you think Mrs. Hudson would tolerate the music?"_ Jim was definitely joking that time. He had to be. There was no way Sherlock would be dancing alone in his sitting room with Sebastian Moran, no matter how cooped up they were, even if Jim was lurking somewhere in the shadows. Probably laughing. 

Sherlock's expression soured and he heard Jim laugh in the back of his mind. _"If you're serious about this, we'll have to sneak out to the countryside. Somewhere small, without a lot of CCTV cameras. Even if we took a quick trip out of the country to France, there will be CCTV cameras in the major cities and agents watching them."_ Sherlock's frown deepened. _"And I am not going to be dancing for you. Least of all with him."_

_"Spoil sport,"_ Jim huffed. _"I'd wager I can get you to dance with me. Still. Aside from donning one of your ridiculous disguises to get Seb into a pub, which I am perfectly willing to do, we don't have many options. And I am dreadfully bored. Almost as bored as you are, no doubt."_ If Jim had been physically present in the room, Sherlock got the feeling he would have been levelling big, dead eyes at him. 

Sherlock _was_ bored. Terribly, terribly bored. As far as suggestions went, sneaking out to a pub in the countryside was going to be less conspicuous and dangerous than other things Jim might think up that would have MI6 combing the city for Moran all over again. Sherlock sighed and crossed his arms, looking back to Moran. "...Jim wants a night out at the pub. All of us together. I don't want to test what might happen if he gets more bored than he already is, so I'd suggest we get away from the city to somewhere your face isn't going to immediately summon the authorities."

Sebastian eyed Sherlock at his choice of wording, but sat up in interest. He cracked his neck. "Sounds good to me. Flat's a bit cramped lately." He rose and headed to the kitchen, walking straight up to Sherlock, and then around him for the fridge. Moran had a tendency to do things like that, subtle physical intimidations "Are we going to be camera dodging all the way, or are you renting a car? I can hide well enough but it'll take a while by cab." Moran sloshed his tea around the mug instead of using a spoon. "Y'know there was one place Jim liked to go. Club, not too far out but maybe just far enough. Little place called Ivory up the A406."

Sherlock resented Moran's attempts at intimidation, as well as his presence in the flat. He tolerated the gunman as an unfortunate requirement for keeping Jim happy. "I'll be renting a car. You'll need to hide in the back until we're suitably out of London proper to no longer have the danger of any cameras catching a glimpse of you. I don't particularly care where we go." So long as it was out of the flat for a bit and took the edge off for all of them. So long as Jim and Sebastian didn't make this more unpleasant than it had to be.

"Exciting." Moran sounded just as displeased as Sherlock did, but he sipped his tea and the subtle posturing of his body hinted that he was relieved to be doing something.

Sherlock could feel Jim's satisfaction seeping through his body, like Jim was a foreign source of endorphins. He uncurled himself and became very light in Sherlock's mind, almost not there at all but for the lingering, familiarity of his presence. _"Ivory will be discreet enough, if you have the cash. And Seb knows the area. Give it a chance."_

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he dug out his phone. "Pack whatever you need for the night. The fact that I'm leaving London is going to be noticed, and it will be considerably less suspicious if I stay out for more than a handful of hours, as I can pass my absence off as a short holiday."

Sherlock turned and left for his room before Moran could respond. He was already dialing a rental company for a car and planning on what he'd need to bring. One thing was certain: he'd need to have plenty of cash to spare. He was not going to share a room with Moran, even with the concerns that they might be spotted or tracked.

Jim said nothing while Sherlock made preparations. Since that first day he hadn't pushed for Sherlock and Sebastian to get along, and they'd been avoiding each other as much as possible ever since. They were doing surprisingly well for two people who were stuck in a single flat. Having an unseen third party to talk to and access to the outside world via internet was probably the only thing that saved them from having to converse with one another. But all that was about to change with this outing. They wouldn't be able to avoid each other, at least not completely. If only on the drive. Once there, they could split. Moran wouldn't be stupid enough to step out of the club and get noticed, and all Jim wanted to do was to see Sherlock dance. Simple, really. Hopefully. 

Sherlock packed what he needed, deposited his luggage by the doorway, and briefly left the flat to pick up the car. Thankfully, since they were so close to the University of Westminster, a car rental service was only a few minutes' walk away. Sherlock made good time, paid, and was back in front of the flat in barely any time at all.

Enough days had passed without incident that, thankfully, Lestrade's security detail had been called off due to the lack of active threat. All that left was getting Sebastian into the car without being noticed. 

_"...Jim, are you able to temporarily knock out the cameras watching the door?"_

_"Think nothing of it,"_ Jim said sweetly. _"You walk ahead of Seb. I'll cut it before he enters the frame. Dear brother will be less suspicious that way."_

Moran, too, was ready to go with only a single pack at his feet. Change of clothes, toothbrush, razor, he didn't need much. One look at Sherlock and he swung the bag over his shoulder. This was Jim's desire and they were all ready to for a break. Moran wasn't going to cause trouble now. "All set?"

Sherlock grabbed his bag from where he'd left it beside the door. "All set. Follow close behind me. Jim is going to cut the cameras temporarily right after I leave the doorway. You'll have a short time to get in and hide in the back." The drive wouldn't take long - a little less than an hour - but Sherlock wasn't happy thinking about behind trapped in a small car with Moran sitting behind him. The man wouldn’t try anything while Sherlock was driving, but he'd be more than able to make things uncomfortable.

Sherlock received a nod of confirmation and then they were out the door. Just as Sherlock instructed, Moran stayed close, several steps behind, just far back enough. Jim informed Sherlock the cameras malfunctioned without a hitch, and they were sliding into the car Sherlock had parked conveniently on the street. Moran's pack went on the floor and he maneuvered his tall frame to lie on the back seat. 

"Damn, this is uncomfortable." He had to like it even less when he couldn't see where they were going or what was coming. Sherlock had noticed early on that he needed to be aware and in control of his surroundings at all times. 

Sherlock bitterly mused that it was nice to have someone else experiencing an unnerving loss of control. He'd had quite enough of being the only one with his hands tied. He deposited his own bag in the passenger seat, turned the key in the ignition, and then they were off. 

Traffic was congested enough that it took them longer to get past the city limits than Sherlock had planned, but eventually the A1 turned and brought the sight of open, green pastures out the window. Sherlock glanced in the rearview mirror to get a look at his passenger. "...you should be able to sit up now."

Moran did, quickly. The first thing he did was look out the window, assessing where they were. Now that he was up, he seemed much more comfortable. He even rolled down a window. "Not much farther." Amazingly, some of the gruff tension had left his tone. 

_"Get Seb outside and he's happy,"_ Jim grumbled from somewhere inside Sherlock's head. His tone suggested this had been an annoyance for him often enough before. Possibly something the two of them had disagreed on. 

Sherlock's gaze lingered in the mirror for a second or two longer before it turned back to the road. Moran didn't just sound happier, he _looked_ happier. His body language had subtly changed.

All that did was remind Sherlock of another memory - taking John out to the countryside for a case. Despite how nettly some of their conversations had gotten on the trip, tension had noticeably drained away from the doctor. The phenomenon had confused Sherlock until he'd reflected on John's veteran status. Soldiers returning from war often felt overwhelmed by a number of things, including the wide range of choices in a consumeristic society and the bustling, tightly-packed spaces of the city. For people who were stuck constantly assessing their surroundings for potential threats, there was simply too much to look at, too many things moving too fast. 

Moran would not have had time to adjust to civilian life. He'd gone from the military to prison to working as an assassin under Jim. Constant vigilance was ingrained by now.

A less surly Moran could do a lot to improve the trip. Subtle aggression had been forming as much of the tension between them as wariness had been. Sherlock would just have to hope that it lasted. They were losing the sun quickly, and it was just as well. Any cover they had when they arrived would be useful. 

"It's been years, doubtful they'd remember me, but just in case I hope Jim told you to bring extra cash." Moran flashed a prepaid ATM card in the mirror. "Don't worry about me."

"He did, in fact, warn me that this place would be discreet so long as they were compensated, if the need came up." Now that they were closer to their destination, Sherlock wasn't entirely certain what Jim's plan was. He wasn't opposed to a little alcohol in moderation, although drinking while seemingly alone was going to be awkward, but Sherlock didn't know what he was supposed to do to pass the time. Watching people quickly became boring. Deductions rarely turned up anyone sufficiently unique to be worth the effort of engaging in temporary conversation. He also wasn't much for card games.

They drove on in silence until Moran leaned forward to look out the windshield. "Take the next exit."   
If Sherlock wanted 'out of the way', it looked like they were going to get it. There wasn't much off this part of the highway apart from back streets and warehouses. Old ones by the look of it, and not many signs of surveillance. Still they would have to be careful on the way in. Down a few more turns and they found their destination, barely noticeable from the outside with only a single open door and a tiny, modestly lit sign pronouncing itself "Ivory". 

"It gets better on the inside," Seb shrugged before pointing out valet. 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and eyed the building skeptically. It truly didn't look like much. Not the sort of place he would have thought Jim would favor, at any rate. Ivory looked like it catered to clientele who wanted cheap drinks and House music without having to venture down to London and worry about a long drive home.

Sherlock pulled up to the kerb and stepped out. He heard the passenger door open and close behind him while he handed over the keys to the valet boy and slipped him a note. Jim had said the club was discreet, but it didn't hurt to be extra cautious, particularly considering that he could feel Moran's looming presence right behind him. The valet barely glanced at Sherlock's companion before he slid into the driver's seat and took off.

The detective's skin prickled as they walked to the door. He couldn't help it. Moran hadn't tried to kill him since Jim had brought them to a truce, but he'd still done his best to subtly intimidate, and Moran was very good at intimidation.

The way he crowded Sherlock's back at the very least kept prying eyes off him, if the doorman and one or two patrons heading their way were any concern. It was an unusual kind of body language to be directed at Sherlock, and Sherlock could only deduce that now they were among other people, Moran's first instinct was to watch out for Sherlock as he would have done for Moriarty. It was a strange contrast to their interactions thus far, but considering that Sherlock now in a sense _was_ Moriarty, it was almost to be expected. 

Moran kept it up only until they were inside and had a good look at the place, however. He, like Sherlock, needed to get a lay of the land after being absent for at least three years. And it was not at all what Sherlock had expected from the outside. 

It was packed. And expansive. And true to its name, it glittered in whites and gold and lights dangling like icicles of crystal glass from the ceiling. There were walkways and alcoves and a bar not far from the entrance. And the music was loud. Almost too loud to hear. 

"There's more in the back," Moran raised his voice, having to lean over Sherlock's shoulder to make himself heard. 

Sherlock tensed when Moran got closer, but he quickly realized why the man had done it. The bass from the music was turned up enough to reverberate through his bones. It was only early evening and people were only just getting started, but the crowd spoke to the club's popularity, if not necessarily its quality.

The detective walked quickly through the crowd, eyes skimming over people as he passed by. No one in the front alcoves looked to be anyone he needed to worry about. At least not in a serious way; he was quite recognizable in London, but had always been less so in rural areas around Great Britain. Sherlock could only hope that no fans tried to sneak a picture of him and unfortunately catch Moran in the frame.

Which he needn't have worried about because the moment he turned to glance back, Moran was gone. Nowhere in sight. He'd ditched Sherlock, and the bustle of bodies coming and going around him amid the flashing lights made Moran impossible to spot. 

_"Don't worry,"_ Jim finally spoke up, not needing to compete with the sound system for Sherlock's ear. _"He just needs to blow off a little steam. As do you I assume."_

_"I can't imagine **why**."_ Sherlock suppressed the desire to roll his eyes and instead concentrated on getting through the crowd unmolested. Just because no one had recognized him thus far didn't mean he wasn't going to be bothered. Sherlock would be lying if he'd said he wasn't flattered by the attentions he attracted, but he rarely wanted to deal with the people who came up to him. The situation was always uncomfortable and tended to end with tears or resentful looks whenever he tried to cut to the chase in order to get his privacy back.

Sherlock managed to make it all the way back to the bar. The bartenders were busy with the several customers already waiting in front of Sherlock, which gave him some time to mull over what to order. Alcohol _did_ , in fact, sound thoroughly appealing at the moment, but Sherlock also had other considerations to think about. Such as the blood alcohol threshold where he'd be operating at less-than-optimal should this outing go wrong.

_"Live a little, Sherlock. If you start now, you'll have plenty of time to sober up before the night winds down. And Sebastian can take care of himself."_ Jim's logic was tempting. As was the curl of warmth that pressed at Sherlock's chest, just a little reminder that he wasn't alone. _"You don't have to start off too strong. And I'll even keep an eye out for you. How's that now?"_

The crowd parted as several people left with drinks in hand. Everyone around him was ignoring Sherlock, chatting loudly amongst themselves or waiting for the bar. Here, he wasn't noticeably alone. 

Sherlock preferred wine, but he knew that a place like this would also lack anything of the quality he was used to... and he would look out of place. He was at least _that_ adept at some social conventions. 

A glance up and down the bar gave him a general idea of what the normal range of drinks were, as well as what the bar might have in stock. Something in Jim's tone, in the way he felt the need to comfort him like a timid child, rankled. It was a reaction that Jim was probably aiming for, but he'd had time to learn just how to aim. When the bartender's gaze turned to him, he ordered a Manhattan. A minute later and he'd handed over a couple of quid for an amber glass with a skewer of black cherries. Sherlock immediately moved away from the bar and went looking for an empty corner where he could sit and observe the crowd without interacting.

Jim, to his credit, did not comment on the drink. That, however, did not prevent him from commenting on other topics. _"What I wouldn't give to have my body back for this. But you know, I am keenly interested to find out whether the alcohol you consume will have any effect on me, should I remain in your body long enough. I can feel your emotions. If I let them, they could probably affect me. I wonder if the same can be said on a chemical level."_

People parted for Sherlock as he moved, recognizing his single minded focus to be elsewhere, but occasionally, someone's eyes would follow. From where he stood now, the dance floor wasn't far. It was expansive, but broken up into sections that looked like they spread to rooms beyond the one adorned solely in white. Sherlock ignored it and made a beeline for an empty table. It was inevitable that someone would approach and try to initiate a conversation, but he would deal with such situations as they came up. 

He took a seat and began to watch the crowd while taking the first sip from his glass. The bitterness of whiskey and vermouth rolled over his tongue.

_"I don't see why you'd need your body back for this. I'm fairly confident that anything that affects my body would, by consequence, affect you. You can detach and temporarily go elsewhere, but the evidence thus far is stacked in favor of the theory that you've taken up residence in a portion of my brain and sectioned it off."_ Sherlock took another sip. _"Although you seem to have avoided other complications, come to think of it. You haven't been affected by any of the endocrinal reactions to my emotions, which would saturate the bloodstream just as much."_

Jim hummed in agreement. _"All that we've managed to determine is that you, and you only, are a source of energy for me. Whether that energy is chemical, electrical, or somehow neurologically specific to you…remains to be determined. And I wouldn't mind starting here. Though I do miss the taste."_ Jim sighed wistfully. It wasn't completely put upon. He was about to ‘make conversation’. _"When was the last time you had a decent drink out? Don't tell me it was John's stag do. It was John's stag do, wasn't it?"_

_"It was. There's little point in going out in public and having to endure people and pay more for poorer quality when unaccompanied. Why would I want to subject myself to... this?"_ Sherlock took in the room, filled with people - many couples, or groups of friends, and quite a few people who were obviously seeking out someone to start a fling with. Most were laughing, smiling, having a good time. Some were buzzed enough that they'd grown more open in their expressions and careless with their bodies, just a little too loud and too loose, too exaggerated. None really caught Sherlock's attention. It was just more of the same that he ran into everywhere in London. There wasn't anything specifically wrong with them, except for the fact that they were frustratingly normal. No unusual drive, no particularly unique personalities or skills, just people who were content to subject themselves to eight hours of daily gruntwork, then go to the pub and turn off their brains with football and beer. Or whatever their poison was. They'd pass into history without a ripple left behind.

_"Mmm, I do see your point. Not a soul in sight who could meet even half my intellect. And yet.... When the world becomes too frustrating and even my personal dalliances with a false identity on the side didn’t work out, I could come to a place like this, get perfectly sloshed, or another poison of choice, stand in the middle of that dance floor, and get lost in the mindless, writhing, repugnant sea of humanity."_

Off to the side of the dance floor a pair of young women had noticed Sherlock. From their glances and the way they leaned in to talk to one another it was obvious, but they would stay where they were after making eye contact. They would expect Sherlock to come to them if he was just taking a break to scope out the scene for a minute and not the isolated creepy guy he was about to become if he sat there alone much longer. 

_"Humanity depresses me. I don't know why you'd want to inflict that upon yourself."_ Alcohol lowered inhibitions and dulled some senses, but it also could make it more difficult to cope. All Sherlock saw, when in a place like this by himself, was how alien he was to other people, and they to him. How much he was alone not only by choice, but because there was a gap there that couldn't be breached no matter how they tried to communicate. It seemed far better to indulge his vices in the privacy of his own home, or at least out in the more deserved portions of the London streets and rooftops.

The two women continued to whisper, and one rubbed her arm in a nervous gesture. Sherlock ignored them. This, perhaps, was where he'd made his miscalculation before. He wasn't uninterested because of a preference for a particular gender over others, but neither was he completely asexual. His boundaries and requirements to merit interest were simply so very particular that he'd gone for most of his life never encountering anyone that triggered attraction beyond a vaguely pleasing sense of aesthetics.

_"I'm pleased you find me so alluring,"_ Jim whispered, reading Sherlock's thoughts, and Sherlock knew he'd be grinning if he was tangible. A warm tingle, like the tips of fingers, trailed down the back of Sherlock's neck. It lingered. _"Tell me, when was the last time you danced? I've seen enough of your early memories to know you enjoy it...."_

The women moved on, seeing that Sherlock was in fact as disinterested as he looked. A third of their group had joined them and was pulling them off to the floor. How easy it was for people like them, to stop thinking about everything else and go along with the flow of the crowd. 

_"...a very long time,"_ Sherlock admitted quietly. His drink was half-gone by now, the effects slowly taking hold. His gaze shifted to those who were out on the dance floor. Most of them didn't have the faintest idea of what to do, but they made up for it in enthusiasm and drink-fortified courage. _"It was just one more thing to elicit comments and mockery, when I reached those particularly awkward years, and there isn't much point to doing it without a partner. For a lot of dances, anyway. And I'm well known enough now in London that it just..."_ Hadn't seemed worth it to try to find an outlet, either for the people who'd try to interact with him to snag a bit of fame for themselves, or the paparazzi that occasionally snapped shots of him when he was out and about. He'd had a brief moment of hope that he'd find an opportunity at John's wedding, only to have that thoroughly dashed.

_"Well, let's get you another drink. Tonight I'd like to break your dry spell."_ The phantom fingers curled gently at the nape of Sherlock's neck, and when Jim spoke again his voice was soothing. _"I would very much like to see you dance. And to be here, in your body, while doing so. The physicality of it....I have all these memories.... Training in Judo, for example."_ Jim's speech paused, like he were smiling. Warmth settled lightly in Sherlock's chest. _"You were beautiful even when you were fighting."_

Sherlock felt a flush creep up his cheeks. And that, too, was strange; while he'd often appreciated compliments, he usually didn't feel any sort of weight behind them that made him internalize them. _"Judo is... very similar to a dance in many ways, yes, even though the object is to incapacitate your partner. I'm not going to dance tonight, though. I don't like to dance alone, especially in public, and I'd rather not make a show at seducing some random woman just to have a warm body in front of me."_

_"And so you see why it is I wish for my body back,"_ Jim sighed. _"You know if you go out there, you won't be truly alone."_ Sherlock felt the sensation of palms running over his shoulders and down his arms. It was Jim's beckoning call, trying to sway him away from the table in the corner whether that was back to the bar or out to the dance floor. Jim's attempts to ply him into dancing with more alcohol were transparent, but out of the options available it was one of the better ones. 

Sherlock finished his drink and rose to return to the bar. He'd supply Jim with the means to experiment with whether he could still feel intoxication or not, but he wasn't going to be persuaded out onto the floor. He really wasn't alone anymore, because Jim couldn't ever truly leave, but he was alone in the way that mattered for this. He had no one to touch, no one to play off, and his partner would be unobservable to everyone else.

Sherlock paid for a Jameson with just a hint of an ironic smile and quickly made his way back to his table before he lost his seat. He wasn't in the mood to be awkwardly wandering around the club with a drink in hand. 

_"Irish whiskey?"_ Sherlock could feel Jim's amusement.

_"I don't suppose you're going to tell me, while you're eagerly trying to ply me with drink, what your favorites were."_

_"I've always had a weak spot for Talisker. Sebastian favours vodka. It's grown on me.”_ Jim laughed softly. He was becoming tactile. Sherlock felt it in subtle, ghostly touches along his arms and waist, so light it might have almost been the clothing brushing against his body. _"My one real vice for these outings wasn't liquor. It was E."_

Sherlock paused with his glass halfway to his lips. He wasn't expecting Jim to admit something like that. _"I'm going to take it you were aware that E permanently burns out pleasure receptors? I'm in no position to judge regarding substance use, but I tried to limit it to things that weren't likely to do much permanent harm."_ Although, if Jim had burnt himself completely out, that might have explained a few things. Without being able to feel anything to combat the pain filling the other areas of his life, life would have quickly become unbearable.

Sherlock took a swallow of his whiskey and leaned back in his chair. He was starting to feel looser, and pleasantly warm, and Jim's light touches were starting to become distracting. The corner of Sherlock's mouth curled into a half-smile. _"Is this a sign that alcohol does, in fact, get to you in this state, or am I just that irresistible to you tonight?"_

Jim laughed and Sherlock could have sworn he felt it against his ear. _"I can feel it in you, but it's not quite the same.... The way I can feel your body, it's like stepping into you and then stepping out again. I could...separate myself if I wanted to.... Hm, but I don't think I do. Now that I have access to your unpolluted pleasure receptors."_ That time Sherlock _definitely_ felt something against his ear. Something very pleasant. And pressure like a hand...sliding down his chest. _"I doubt you have a penchant for secret, public indulgences, but yes, it is hard to resist."_

No one was paying attention either. People milled about, but each little party was lost in their own world until one or two broke away and crossed paths. Like little atoms. Protons and electrons, jittering about and colliding. Attraction. Repulsion. In a very trite way, it was all there. 

Sherlock's train of thought derailed. Jim had been letting him recover for the past few days, and while he'd been loathe to admit it, he was starting to feel an effect. He hadn't quite been bold enough to try initiating anything again, but the idea of Jim doing things to him in ways he couldn't prevent, in public... was both intriguing and frightening. One part of his body was quite focused on just how intriguing it was, and the sensation of a hand sliding lower. _"...I'd really rather that you didn't. I might admit to being dramatic, but not that sort of dramatic."_

_"That's really too bad. The fun of it isn't the exhibitionism. It's the not getting caught."_ But the pressure retreated from Sherlock's belt, diverting to smooth down his leg instead. That didn't stop the warmth near Sherlock's ear from sliding down his neck, however. _"Doesn't seem like my efforts were wasted,"_ Jim mused. _"I can feel your interest."_ The warmth paused at the dip in Sherlock's collar. _"Are you sure you won't dance with me...? You may not be able to see me, but you can certainly_ feel _me."_

Sherlock's eyes slid closed, but he shook his head. Even with a moderate amount of liquor in him and Jim's persuasive touches, he wasn't going to be moved. _"I don't want to look like I'm dancing with myself, is all. If you really want to insist, we can visit an older memory of mine and dance there."_ Sherlock's neck arched and he opened his eyes, trying at the last moment to make it look like he was simply stretching to get rid of a cramp.

Jim chuckled. _"That doesn't lend us the same unpredictability. Hmm, but I wouldn't say no."_

Far across the room, almost too far and through too many moving bodies to be sure, Sherlock caught a glimpse of Moran. It was his stature more than anything that gave him away. The man's profile, cropped, natural blond hair and stern brow, was familiar enough for Sherlock to fix on the man with even as brief a glimpse as he'd seen. Moran's gait had changed though, smooth enough to slip around the other patrons. Sherlock saw that much as the crowd parted and he caught another glimpse of Jim's former bodyguard. He was heading for the bar.

Sherlock's attention shifted. The other patrons faded into the background as they went about their business, dancing and drinking and socializing with the hope of making particular connections. Sherlock's gaze followed Moran's glide through the crowd with particular interest. He moved differently. He was, in a very real sense, different from everyone else in this building, so far as Sherlock could discern. Moran was a prowling cat slinking through a hutch filled with songbirds, and that was far more interesting to watch than the meaningless twittering going on around him.

Sherlock got to his feet before he quite realized his own intentions and began to follow after the man.

True to Jim's memory, Moran was ordering straight vodka shots from the bar. He was tall enough, and big enough, that Sherlock estimated his body weight to alcohol level could handle it, but Moran wasn't taking his time about it. One clear glass after the next he tipped back until he was washing it down with beer. And then, just as he was turning, scanning the crowd, raising his arm to lean on the bar, he caught sight of Sherlock standing amidst the throng. It wasn't quite a double take he gave Sherlock, but Moran's pale eyes, clear even from a distance, fixed to him carefully. Moran was staring at him with such scrutiny that it took a second for Sherlock to realize why. 

He was trying to determine whether Sherlock was still Sherlock. 

A thrill raced up Sherlock's spine. It wasn't quite the same as the adrenaline rush he remembered from other dangerous confrontations, but similar enough that he recognized the feeling. Moran was intrinsically understood to be a predator, and one that would get the better of him if he wasn't careful. It was the same sort of situation Sherlock enjoyed when dealing with criminals, although he vastly preferred an intellectual game of wits against physicality. 

Sherlock finished the last of his whiskey and, under the pretense of ordering a new round, began to approach the bar. He could feel his pulse rising with every step, and he didn't quite dare take his eyes off the gunman.

It was very strange, their little nonverbal standoff, because even though there was no doubt Moran was a predator, his eyes were wary on Sherlock. If Sherlock was Jim, and Jim was playing at ignoring Moran, it was putting the man on edge. Finally, it looked like he'd decided Jim hadn't taken over after all, that Sherlock's hesitance was simply Sherlock as usual, because some of Moran's casual confidence came back to the set of his posture. He took another pull from his beer and strode forward, gliding with unusual grace through the bodies between them, heading straight for Sherlock. 

Sherlock's stride didn't alter, but his frame tensed the closer Moran got. Days of subtle and overt intimidation had an effect, and that was _after_ he'd already found Moran threatening. Being introduced to someone by having them nearly kill him a few times wasn't a way to induce confidence and ease into their relationship.

Sebastian eventually blocked Sherlock's way to the bar. They were nearly of equal height, but Sherlock felt as if he was looking up at the man, empty glass clutched in one hand. He raised an eyebrow and tried to step around him.

Sebastian allowed it, but not without a little half smile and not without turning right along with Sherlock, matching his pace until they reached the bar and had to stop. That smile on Moran looked...decidedly cocky. And Jim was unusually, and in this case unhelpfully, silent. Even his touches had all but stopped. The only one that remained, like a little reminder for Sherlock not to worry, was a gentle stroking at the nape of his neck. 

"Enjoying yourself?" Sebastian wouldn't leave. He planted his back against the bar and made it seem like he was looking out over the crowd, but his eyes were still on Sherlock. "Doesn't look like you've moved from that corner even once yet. Not counting the bar."

Sherlock decided to continue his play on nonchalance. He stared back at Moran for a moment before ordering another round - Talisker, this time. From the microexpression Sherlock saw flicker across the other man's face, he knew Moran recognized it. "Why would I?" Sherlock finally asked. "It's not like the other patrons are suitably entertaining to engage with. In any way. The same dull chatting and awkward, half-aborted movements that are supposed to approximate dancing everywhere you look."

"I see you've been talking to Jim," Moran raised an eyebrow at the drink, which they surprisingly did have on hand, as the bartender slid it up. "Unless you just happen to have a thing for same whiskey. But that begs the question, if the two of you have in fact been talking, what does he think about you hiding out over there all night?" Moran looked like he knew very well how Jim felt about Sherlock sitting alone, not that Jim had encouraged him to dance with anyone else. 

"I think you know very well how he feels about it." Sherlock took a sip of the drink and winced ever so slightly. He wasn't far enough gone yet that the peat taste and potent sting of the scotch didn't register. "I'm grateful I haven't had a request to burn my pleasure sensors out to let him relive old experiences, but I'm also not about to make an idiot of myself dancing alone. Or with some random woman I could persuade into it, which would only be a short step up from dancing alone," he added dryly. 

Moran laughed. It was a sudden, deep throated sound, not for show or for banter. "Jim almost always danced alone," he explained. "He really wouldn't think of being self-conscious over that. He'd get out there and then just tune out. Wouldn't even realize there were people on the floor with him. And no, he never did dance with women either." 

But Moran had said 'almost' always, and if he didn't dance with women, that brought up the question of who Jim did dance with. It wasn't inconceivable that he'd been able to find male partners here, but...that was a similarly strange mental image from what Sherlock knew of Jim. 

Sherlock's eyebrows drew together as he tried to picture it. He was having a difficult time imagining Jim with... anyone, really, but particularly other men. Sherlock was fairly confident that Jim would aggressively insist on being the dominant no matter what situation he was in, which wouldn't have played very well with the sort of men Sherlock could see in the club. Even with his deductive powers diminishing under the effect of alcohol, every male in the area who was a little bit flexible towards their own gender was projecting a preference for dominance and control. Sherlock supposed that said more about the vicissitudes of societal norms, even when in a minority group, than it did about males in general.

He was in the middle of taking another sip when his gaze slid sideways toward Moran. The rest of the man's words had finally clicked into a semblance of a theory, but equally odd was how... _friendly_ Moran was being. His body language was still slightly aggressive, but not nearly to the degree it had been every time they'd interacted before. Sherlock wondered if the man had noticed he was leaning towards Sherlock slightly.

Moran caught Sherlock's eyes when they raised, and it was...strange. Sebastian hated Sherlock, but he was devoted, _utterly_ devoted, to Jim, and up until this moment he had looked at Sherlock like that distinction was very clear in his mind. But now, and maybe the liquor had something to do with it, he looked at Sherlock...like he was looking for Jim, and yet wasn't entirely disappointed that it was still Sherlock in front of him. Just a little...confused. 

Moran must have caught himself, remembering to speak again. "He made it a good time when he wanted it to be." He shrugged one shoulder.

"...he has the tendency to do that, yes," Sherlock agreed slowly. He wasn't thinking as quickly with the alcohol in his system, but part of him was very wary - both of Moran in general, and this new odd behavior of his. It was a vast improvement, but Sherlock wasn't sure where to step. He was certain he was going to put his foot into a bear trap when he wasn't paying attention. 

"You don't seem naturally inclined in that direction. What have you been doing, then? Besides watching me enough to know that I haven't moved." That wasn't as suspicious as it might have been, given that Moran was more or less Jim's bodyguard, but it was a little eerie for him to have blended in so thoroughly that he could watch Sherlock while Sherlock hadn’t spotted him.

Moran was silent, relaxed but it also looked like he was having some trouble deciding on an expression. He smiled and half laughed to himself even when a frown threatened to pull at the corners. He licked his lips to cover for it, but Sherlock saw. And then the man shrugged. "Looking for someone I won't find, I suppose. Dancing's not really my thing unless I have incentive to be out there." And now he _wouldn't_ look at Sherlock, not even when Sherlock stared. It was suddenly a little easier now to imagine Jim alone on the floor...and Moran coming up behind him...because Jim wouldn't care if it was Moran.

Sherlock didn't know what to say. Even with his thoughts turning fuzzy around the edges, he could still follow what was going on between the lines. He could even picture what must have happened when the two men had gone out in public before, here and in other places. Jim would try to escape himself and everything else, burning so brightly he was burning himself out, far too fast... and Moran hovering like a shadow in the background, every once in a while daring to reach out to try to touch, try to catch him. 

Sherlock wasn't naturally prone towards feelings of empathy, but he could easily understand how painful that must have been.

And how painful it might be now, coming to the same place and finding Jim conspicuously absent, in a way. Sherlock studied Moran's face for another moment or two before he averted his gaze and took another sip of his drink. "...do you miss it?"

"Shit," Moran laughed. "Of course I miss it." He took a long pull on his beer after that like he wanted to be, needed to be, more intoxicated than he was for this kind of talk. Before Sherlock could comment, Sebastian turned and asked the bartender for another shot, this time two, and when he turned back to Sherlock, he slid one across the counter. His smile was forced and so was the raise of his brow, Sherlock could see that much. Sebastian, like Jim and like Sherlock in other ways, held back quite a lot. "Drink up." 

Sherlock may not have been what one could call a friend to Moran, but he was also the only one who was there and the only one who had known Jim. And understood Jim just barely well enough for that to matter. 

Sherlock's surprise evened out into an intent expression. He didn't know what one called this sort of social interaction, but he'd witnessed it many times before both when he was putting on an act for a case or simply watching people from a distance. They weren't friends, but they were two people trying to cope with the same situation, and there was no one else who understood the situation.

Sherlock took the glass and raised it in acknowledgement, waiting until Moran took his. They tossed the shots back together, and Sherlock noted vaguely that he was intoxicated enough that it hardly burned going down. The thought didn't seem important. Words started pouring out of Sherlock's mouth before he was aware of his intent to speak. "...it's strange to miss some things when he's not really gone. Cases giftwrapped like presents. I keep expecting to see him right behind me just because I can hear him and feel he's there."

"I don't know if that much would help or just drive me madder," Moran admitted. From what Sherlock could tell from the time Jim had inhabited his body, touch was a thing Moran desired quite a lot from Jim. Although that may not translate solely to erotic purposes. It was a desire very similar to Sherlock's expectation of seeing Jim when he heard Jim's voice, a desire for solidity. Moran seemed determined not to let melancholy get the best of him, even in their fast deteriorating line of conversation. "I always told Jim he was unstable at the best of times. Now he had to go and make himself intangible, too." Another pull of beer. Another stilted laugh. "I shouldn't believe all this....but when he writes to me, I can tell it's him. And when he talked through you, I could tell it was him. And I know he's probably listening to every fucking word of this and tomorrow he'll have a field day tearing me apart for getting this drunk, but...shit, yeah. I miss it."

"Don't feel too badly about that." Sherlock actually laughed quietly, staring down at the remaining scotch in his glass. "I had a hard time believing it, and that was with him jerking me around like a puppet, freezing me half to death and shattering light bulbs and trying to stop my heart. It was easier to think I was sick and losing my mind to hallucinations." There were still moments of unreality, even though Sherlock knew better now. It was difficult to reconsider previously solid beliefs about how the world worked, even in the face of the evidence.

Alcohol was making everything and everyone else melt into the background. Sherlock could still hear the music playing, could still see and feel the crowd around them at the bar, but none of it seemed to matter. Everything was too colorful, like a dream. Even time seemed to slow down.

Moran was laughing now, too. At something Sherlock said. Or did. It was hard to tell because Sebastian was just sort of looking at him like he hadn't really looked at Sherlock before. "Y'know for a guy who spends his time trying to be the next greatest detective, investigator, or whatever it is, you're not so bad when you relax a little. I mean, I've seen what you can do, and don't get me wrong, it's impressive, but I never understood his fascination with you." Piercing blue eyes, intoxicated as Moran was, never let up their scrutiny. Just like Moran had studied him before. And that was it. Moran was trying to see Sherlock the way Jim saw Sherlock. But Sebastian wasn't Jim, and he possibly, probably, hadn't known the gravity of Jim's encounter with Sherlock so long ago. All he saw was Jim's growing obsession with the reclusive detective over the past couple years of Jim's life coinciding with some happenstance in their childhoods, and apart from Sherlock's substantial intellect and adversarial role to Moriarty, Moran would have had no idea why. 

Sherlock frowned and bristled a little. "I don't _try_ ," he muttered, his words starting to get just slightly slurred around the edges. "I _am_ the greatest detective in Great Britain, if not the world. I don't do what I do because I want to be the best. I don't really care what people think of me."

Well, the last wasn't entirely true, but it was true enough. Sherlock wanted recognition and praise, but he didn't care what the average person thought about him. He hadn't even cared when his name had been dragged through the mud in the media after his fake suicide. 

Sherlock tipped back the last of his scotch and set the empty tumbler onto the bar a little more forcefully than he intended. "I do it because the Game is the only thing that's tolerable. The only thing that isn't boring. I can't do a normal life, what everyone else has. I've tried it and it doesn't work." Sherlock glanced over his shoulder and vaguely gestured. "All of this. Stupid, banal pointlessness. And they don't even realize it. Small distractions and pleasures work on them so they can't see it. I never stop seeing it. I can never stop seeing too much, so I find a game where I need to see everything to win, and it all goes away for a little while."

Moran's eyes followed. "You sound like him," he said, barely loud enough to be heard over the thrum of music, even as close as they needed to be to hear one another. "He'd say shit like that. And then he'd laugh and go out right in the middle of all of them," he gestured with his drink to the moving bodies, "like he was just another one of them. Almost like he was mocking them, just by pretending. And only I knew." Moran took another drink, emptying the bottle. Sherlock could see the liquor in his movements now, just a little too languid, but Moran was practiced at keeping himself in control. Even when he wasn't. "We could do whatever we wanted. Didn't matter." 

"I don't want to pretend to be them." Sherlock was starting to feel sullen, just looking at all of them. Laughing, dancing, completely oblivious. They couldn't understand him, they didn't want him, and so he didn't want them in turn. They only wanted him when they needed something, and so Sherlock would make them come to them and blind them when they looked at him, like a vengeful Apollo. "I'm not one of them and I can't stand most of them. I tried, with the few I could stand. Making friends. Interacting. I don't think it worked, or else I wouldn't be alone again but for the dead." Sherlock laughed quietly, and it came out bitter and unsettling.

Sherlock felt Jim's warmth again. How different it was from when they had first met like this, the polar opposite in fact. Soothing, caressing pressure stemmed up his chest and rested at his collar. It glided against his cheek and ruffled the strands of his hair. 

Jim hadn't left them. He'd been listening. Even as Moran turned to look at Sherlock, studious gaze trying to determine just who and what Sherlock was through his own inebriation, Jim was watching it all. 

_"Sebastian has never done well with the common people either,"_ Jim whispered. _"You may hate them, but you'd still like to dance, wouldn't you?"_ The warmth slithered down Sherlock's waist, drawing his thoughts away from their sombre path. 

Sherlock's gaze sharpened and turned analytical, and when his eyes slid back towards Moran, his head tilted quizzically. Considering. It wasn't quite the same as the snakelike motions Jim used to make, but the parallel was enough to be eerie.

Moran was tolerating him, and as far as Sherlock was concerned, he _was_ a cut above the rest of the bodies filling this place. The gunman wasn't a genius, but he wasn't stupid, either. Jim had tolerated him well enough. Sherlock felt the prickle of Jim's fingers sliding over his skin and his breathing caught for a moment. "...how much do you miss it? Dancing here."

Although Sherlock's tone itself was casual, the question was unavoidably leading. Moran's gaze, though somewhat relaxed due to intoxication, fixed on Sherlock. It might have been enough to unsettle Sherlock's nerves, the way Moran was looking him up and down, but Jim's touches had gotten more distracting. 

"A fair bit," Moran finally conceded, "But I don't see anybody out there who could hold my attention." Sherlock wasn't imagining the spark of interest in his eye. Moran knew Sherlock wasn't Jim and wasn't about to let Jim take over. He couldn't be hoping for that. But that didn't diminish the curiosity in his stare. He had to be second guessing himself and their mutual inebriation. 

"But one option remains to be taken." Even drunk, Sherlock was beginning to feel pings of nervousness jolt through his spine, and his tongue felt too thick. Moran wasn't safe, but that was part of the appeal, and Sherlock was feeling bored... and dejected, watching the masses flow around him in untouchable Dionysian ecstasy while leaving him to the shadows. He wanted to feel something, for once, instead of numbing everything away because he couldn't find a suitable distraction. "Not an exact match, for either of us, but a better alternative than watching this lot and drinking until blackout."

Nothing seemed to change in Moran as he continued to stare, until Sherlock realized he was getting closer. It wasn't his depth perception playing tricks on him, Moran was definitely leaning in until, quite suddenly, he was in Sherlock’s space. Pale eyes caught on the way Sherlock's breathing instinctively hitched and he could see how that drew the man’s interest. Sebastian’s body turned away from the counter, one step closer brought him mere centimeters apart. Sherlock had made an offer, and now Moran was testing its sincerity with all of his focus. When Sherlock didn't immediately back away, the man smiled. 

Through it all, the gentle pressure of Jim's caresses never ceased. 

A mixture of cold and heat washed through Sherlock and his eyes visibly dilated. Instinct was telling him to run, and it was an impulse he'd always ignored, because running brought him right back to safety and boredom. Moran didn't intend anything yet, but they'd begun another game. Sherlock had risked putting out just the smallest hint, a little tempting offer, and he now had Moran's full attention. He licked his lips and stared back, but didn't back down. "...you didn't give a reply."

Now Moran was really grinning. It reached his eyes. In spite of the scars and the perpetual dourness Sherlock had seen thus far, the man had a very warm face when he had that look about him. And yet somehow it didn't lessen the predatory air. He simply _enjoyed_ being that predator. Moran moved closer still, tilting his head to get to Sherlock's ear. "Come dance with me." 

Sherlock had to concede that Sebastian knew Jim rested inside Sherlock often, that when he spoke into Sherlock's ear with that tone of voice, Jim would hear it too. That might have been incentive for him to take an interest in Sherlock, however, Sebastian also had to be very aware that he was definitely interacting with Sherlock and not Jim. But before Sherlock could consider it longer, he felt a strong grip around his wrist, and he was being pulled away from the bar. 

Sherlock's gaze flicked behind him for a second and he watched it move out of reach like he was observing a life preserver drifting away on the tide. This was sink or swim, now. He'd made his choice and was about to see if the animal in the cage would let himself be touched or would shred Sherlock’s hand as he dared reach between the bars. 

Moran was leading him back through the crowds, away from the packed floor of the front rooms to the one in the back. Sherlock was panicking a bit, running through situations in his head. He hadn't, in fact, danced with another man before, and had only ever taken the lead. He couldn't see Moran letting the latter happen.

In stark contrast to the front, the room Sebastian led him to was pitch black. Only strobe lights illuminated the space and Moran had to wind between people they encountered suddenly just to get them out onto the floor. It was a small relief that there would be more privacy here, but no relief at all when that meant sharing privacy with Moran, of all people. They entered the floor and Sebastian took Sherlock as far away from the other swaying bodies as they could get, which, both fortunately and unfortunately for Sherlock, wasn't all that far. 

Sherlock stood awkwardly at first, and would have remained so if Moran hadn't still had hold of his arm. He was pulled up close as soon as they stopped. Sebastian stepped forward, well into Sherlock's space, but not quite touching, brushing, perhaps, chest to chest, but there was just the smallest sense of distance between them still. Sherlock could feel Jim encouraging him forward with leading brushes of warmth. It was in the very air, like a breeze, and apparently Moran felt it too, because he laughed and his words were as slurred as Sherlock's when he spoke. "I see someone doesn't mind."

Sherlock had never felt this level of anxiety with other partners. Mostly because he'd never really cared who they were, and they've never really had any power to do anything to him; they'd simply been convenient, somewhat pleasant bodies to share space with in time with the rhythm, people that he hadn't minded touching. "I'm not sure why."

And why didn't Jim mind? It could have been simply because he was finally getting what he wanted - someone Sherlock was willing to dance with so he could get his show. There was more to it, though, with the small teases he'd gotten from Jim ever since they'd brought Moran back to the flat. Perhaps Jim viewed Moran as an extension of himself.

Moran was still doing his best to intimidate Sherlock. Sherlock wasn't unaffected, but he wasn't going to let Moran win the game so easily. Determination hardened Sherlock's features and he started to move, but was taking the lead - pushing back on Moran and using leverage to try to make him turn. 

Moran's laugh of surprise told Sherlock exactly what he thought of that, but he went with it, turning in Sherlock's arms before they caught again. The beat of the music wasn't right for a tango, it was the usual droning thump of the club scene, but Moran seemed to be able to work with it as he stepped forward into Sherlock's space, forcing Sherlock either back or into him just as Sherlock had done to him. His arms, however, didn't push Sherlock away. He didn't say it, but the look on his face told Sherlock he knew Sherlock hadn't done this before, especially when Moran's strong arms wrapped around him, guiding him to turn like Sherlock had attempted with him, only slowly this time, catching Sherlock so they were back to front. The alcohol made their movements more fluid, somewhat slower, perhaps, but it loosened the rhythm. "So what do you think?" Moran pressed the words into Sherlock's ear. 

A flush had crept up into Sherlock's face, not entirely from the alcohol. Moran at his back was making him think about Jim, and everything they'd done together... and not quite done. The bass from the speakers was creeping up to hum in his bones. Sherlock turned his head just enough to be able to catch sight of Moran and reply. "...about dancing, or about you?"

Sherlock wasn't sure about the latter, but he wasn't going to make this that easy. His judo training meant he barely had to think about how to step out of the way they were locked together - he slid and ducked, turned, restraining the last part of the move that would have twisted Moran's arm or landed him on the floor. Their positions changed and now he was whispering in the blond's ear. "What do you think?"

Moran's head tilted back and he laughed, really laughed, not just for show. "I think I like it." They swayed that way until Moran leaned his weight back into Sherlock, taking hold of his wrists and holding out by sheer force until he turned and once again they were face to face. He stopped there, however, and lowered Sherlock's hands to his own waist before he let go. "You could spar with me properly someday," Moran said as he wrapped his arms loosely around Sherlock's waist in return. They swayed to the beat of the music, not in perfect rhythm due to the closeness of their position and their intoxication, but it kept their blood pumping. Sherlock's other dances had not usually been this close, formal as they were. Moran was certainly more used to improvising like this. 

Sherlock wasn't used to dancing like this at all, or with a partner that could have easily been someone he'd have faced off in the dojo or on the street. Moran's hands around his waist felt heavier than the female partners he'd had before, and more threatening despite the fact that he wasn't intending anything at the moment. "...I haven't sparred in a while." The thought made Sherlock's blood race, trying to imagine it. Facing down a real threat again, a real challenge, but without the danger of actually dying should he fail. Moran wouldn't kill him now that he knew Jim was tied to him, and Jim wouldn't let Moran go too far.

"That doesn't sound like a 'no'," Moran leaned in. Part of him was still testing Sherlock, and that part of Moran, just like Sherlock, hadn't let his guard down. The interesting thing about the man was that he could be this intimate _without_ letting that particular guard down, and it was eerily similar to Jim. Although Jim's demeanour was far more sweetly cunning than Sebastian’s. Sebastian instead had an intense confidence about him. And right now it was being directed at Sherlock. There was no doubt Moran remembered Sherlock's adamant refusal of more intimate acts between them, or between Jim using his body, but even with that option off the table, it wasn't dampening the man’s curiosity. 

"It isn't a no. Not unless I'm given a reason to change my mind." Sherlock responded with the same stubbornness he always had when he felt challenged. Moran might have been heavier, and stronger in terms of pure force, but that didn't mean that Sherlock was a pushover. He didn't lean away when Sebastian got closer, didn't respond other than a slight narrowing of his eyes and a tension around his mouth. Sherlock tried to press forward, but Moran didn't move back, which meant that Sherlock ended up sliding against him. 

Sherlock saw the way the breath left the other man. Sebastian remained still for only a second and then he was pushing back against Sherlock as well. His hands trapped Sherlock there, preventing him from stepping away. "I'm surprised at you. Living the way we have for the last few days. And yet here you are." Moran was far too close again, and he had that particularly curious glint in his eye when he looked at Sherlock. It was hard not to wonder whether Sebastian was imagining Moriarty somewhere behind the eyes he was looking into when he spoke like that, because his voice had dropped low and his hands were sliding along the dip in Sherlock's lower back. 

Sherlock wasn't able to stop the way his breath hitched, or the glint of fear that crept into his eyes. He knew that Moran wanted to do things to him - or more, that he wanted to do things to Jim, and going through Sherlock was the only way to reach him. The way Sebastian’s interest increased every time he showed a hint of uneasiness didn't make things any easier. "...I don't always do things that make sense." Sherlock felt another streak of warmth travel up his back and into his shoulders, and he laughed. "I think Jim wants us to be friends. I'm not sure about that yet."

"Hm, and why not?" Moran laughed, a little breathlessly. "I know you and Jim haven't exactly been platonic, at least in that mindscape of yours or whatever it is." Moran's arms locked behind his back. One of the man's legs slipped between his own. "Don't tell me you're afraid of me." Moran said with a little grin. It was exactly the type of grin that told Sherlock Moran wouldn't mind if he was. And Jim's little caresses were doing their best to offset Sherlock's fear, while still being as unobtrusive as possible. 

The way Sherlock's body stiffened and tensed told Moran he'd hit a mark. Jim's touches told him he was safe, but Sherlock didn't feel very comforted. More embarrassing still, his body was responding, and Sherlock could tell from the glint in Sebastian’s eye that he'd felt it. "I'd have to be an idiot to not be concerned about a man who's tried to kill me several times over," Sherlock grated. He could have been describing Jim or Sebastian with that remark, really. "I've only just gotten used to 'not platonic'. It's a bit much to... also deal with someone who resents you getting in the way of who they really want."

"Getting in the way?" Moran didn't bristle at that. "You were getting in the way when he was alive. And I was bitter when he was dead. But now...now, you're practically on my side. Even if you'd rather not be," Moran admitted. He wasn't oblivious to Sherlock's reluctance. He cocked his head and shrugged one shoulder in that nonchalant way of his. "I don't typically forgive people for getting in my way...but it doesn't exactly matter anymore, does it?" 

Sherlock felt some measure of relief that, at least to some degree, Moran had admitted that he'd let go of his resentment. Sherlock had been walking around on eggshells in the flat, trying to avoid interaction as much as he possibly could. The laptop had helped the situation a bit, but he'd not forgotten the way Moran had looked at him when they'd gone to get him and the gunman had realized that Jim was riding around in Sherlock's body.

"So I'm forgiven, then?" The music changed to a new song, but neither of them were paying much attention to the dancers around them. Moran had leaned closer again and all Sherlock's mind could process were piercing blue eyes and sharp, white teeth set in a predatory smile. Between that and his intoxication, he was having trouble thinking.

"Yeah, I think you could say that." Given that Sherlock's only fault was being too interesting for Jim to let go, this was fortunate. Jim would have probably held a grudge were he in Moran's position, but Sebastian was proving to be a little more flexible. Sebastian shifted as they swayed to the beat of the music, his leg still firmly wedged in between Sherlock's own, but his hands drew up Sherlock's back as he leaned in close. He stopped before they met, head tilting to hover at the corner of Sherlock's mouth. "And what do you say, do you think you can tolerate having me around?"

Sherlock's thought processes were muddled, but even so, he could tell that Moran wasn't doing this with a focus on someone else. He wasn't feigning interest in order to get access to Jim, although the thought had most certainly crossed the blond's mind. Sherlock couldn't keep his own thoughts from drifting to other parallels - another scarred blond who used to be in the military, with an affinity for guns and broad hands. It didn't help his composure. "I don't think I have much of a choice in the matter," Sherlock replied. "But you're getting more tolerable."

The corner of Moran's mouth pulled up. "Think you could tolerate more than just having me around?" Moran pressed his weight into Sherlock. The friction it created was no less intense when accompanied with the insinuation, and it nearly made them sway on their feet. Moran caught his arms around Sherlock's back, making sure he didn't tip back too far and overbalance as they rocked. Surprisingly, light lashes lowered over Sebastian’s gaze as he drew his nose closer to Sherlock's neck. "It's a little...unexpected, I'll admit. But I'm sure you're aware I've thought about it."

Sherlock starting feeling the first vague waves of panic, sluggish as he finally matched Moran's words with his body language. His voice caught in his throat. Jim was still present, a warm touch at Sherlock's back, but Sherlock didn't know whether that meant he was safe or not. 

He certainly didn't feel safe. Sebastian had Sherlock caught tight against him, and pressed together as they were, it was readily apparent just how much more physically powerful the man was, even if they were of equal height. Sherlock watched the blond's mouth get closer to his neck and all he could think of was Moran's too-wide, sharklike smile and how much damage it could do. "...I'm not certain. This is... very new, to me." The rest of Moran's words sunk in, and Sherlock blinked. "I was aware you were thinking about Jim, not me."

Sherlock felt more than saw that increasingly familiar shrug of one shoulder. "I was," Moran admitted. "But I'm not now." Sherlock felt teeth graze along the curve of his neck even before Moran's mouth followed. The kiss was comparatively chaste to many of Jim's, but those teeth dragged across his skin. "I know you're not Jim," Moran clarified, just to be sure Sherlock was listening as much as he was feeling, "but you're also a little more interesting than I thought you were." He put pressure in the nip that time. Not much. Just enough to feel Sherlock react. 

_"Oh god, Jim, what do I do?"_ Sherlock couldn't suppress the shiver that ran through him, and Moran was too close for him to be able to hide the other reactions - his racing pulse, or the way he got even harder where he was pressed against the man's hip. Having Jim interested in him was challenging enough for Sherlock, who was slowly reassembling pieces of his identity now that he'd begun to accept his attraction and his interest in sex. Sherlock didn't know what to do with another man, one who had _also_ wanted to murder him, suddenly deciding he'd rather bed him instead.

_"Go with it, Sherlock. He won't actually hurt you,"_ Jim whispered into his mind as though he were whispering into Sherlock's ear, directly opposite where Moran was leading up Sherlock's neck. _"If you were anyone else, he might, but you...you aren't exactly on the hit list anymore, and not only insofar as I need your body."_ Jim's warmth wasn't so much soothing any longer as it was tantalizing. It drew down Sherlock's back and over his hips, dipping between them where he was pressed against Moran and between his thighs. 

Sherlock felt Moran gasp. His head looked up to catch Sherlock's attention. He'd felt it, too. 

Sherlock was realizing a little belatedly that Moran must have fit into 'preference types' he hadn't even been aware he'd possessed. He certainly hadn't ever considered his thrillseeking in sexual terms, because Sherlock hadn't thought of himself as sexual. He couldn't deny, however, that knowing how dangerous Moran was... was part of the draw.

The music shifted around them, and people moved on and off of the dance floor. Sherlock and Sebastian ignored all of it, too busy trying to gauge one another. Sherlock licked his lips and tried not to betray how nervous he actually was.

Jim's heat returned, smoldering under Sherlock's skin like he was combusting from the inside out. It could have been painful if Jim wanted it to be, but right now it definitely, definitely wasn't, and the more Sebastian pressed against Sherlock, the more he felt it, too. 

"That's him, isn't it?" Moran gasped. His voice was rougher than it was before and Sherlock could feel him shiver. "Is he always under your skin like that?" Sherlock could barely hear Moran his voice was so low and the music was so loud, but he caught the faint strain of incredulity in his tone. Even while Sherlock could _feel_ just how much the heat and the press of his own body was affecting Moran. 

"Not always, but enough," Sherlock murmured. He was surprised at how rough his own voice sounded. Sound and lights and heat and touch were starting to make him dizzy, and he shut his eyes. That almost made it worse, because then he had to concentration on sensation, the hard body wrapped around him and the music thrumming in his bones until he felt slightly numb. Sherlock was only vaguely aware of how they must have looked out on the dance floor, two men caught up in each other.

Sebastian didn't seem to care at all, especially when he moved a hand between them. He could have been seeking out Jim's heat, it was possible Jim had distracted him enough with his presence, until Sherlock very keenly felt the fingers of that hand splay out over him, adding very real and very direct pressure to the myriad of sensations their bodies and Jim were creating. Moran's hand slid up as the other behind Sherlock slid down, resting at the small of his back to keep him in place while the one at his front curled around the outline of his erection. 

"I really think we should take this somewhere more private," Moran's rumbling voice sounded in his ear. 

Sherlock had nearly stumbled and fallen, but for the fact that he couldn't. Moran had caught him as soon as he wavered. The man's breath in his ear wasn't helping Sherlock think; it took another moment before he finally nodded. He'd meant what he'd told Jim before - he wasn't interested in exhibitionism or public sex, and what they'd been doing on the dance floor had been starting to skirt dangerously close to the line.

Moran finally backed off slightly, and Sherlock glanced over... and immediately felt another wave of panic. It shouldn't have made much of a difference, but Sherlock couldn't help but consider the fact that he'd never done anything outside of the dream reality he shared with Jim. He had no idea what Sebastian’s expectations might be, or if any of the experiences would be remotely the same.

With Sebastian help, he staggered off the floor. "Upstairs," Sebastian grunted in his ear as they passed another couple and held onto the railing of the walkway. As well as Sherlock could tell, which was probably not very well at the moment, the other patrons weren't paying them much attention. Moran had his arm around Sherlock, Sherlock had both arms around Moran, but they were generally making progress in a meandering line. They took the stairs slowly and then across another walkway overlooking the floor in the black room. The lights illuminated everything below in staccato flashes, but up where they were it was harder to reach. So instead, miniature fixtures set on the tops of tables illuminated their way. Moran could have pulled Sherlock anywhere if he'd wanted to. It would have been just dark enough, and with few enough people up there, but instead, down another hall, he found an exit. 

Sherlock was conscious enough that he had realized either he was more intoxicated than Moran, or the blond had much better control. It could have been either; Sherlock used to be able to function even while strung out on illicit substances, but he hadn't indulged for quite some time and wasn't in the habit of drinking regularly. It was a blessing that they were away from the disorienting strobes, but he couldn't help but wonder where they were going. He was going to trust that Sebastian knew the layout of the building, given how many times he and Jim must have come here and how concerned Sebastian would have been over Jim's security. He just hoped they were heading for an exit, rather than a corner where someone might still find them.

Sebastian took him around another corner, through a door into a service hallway, and through another door out into the cold air of the night. It hit Sherlock like a shock compared to the stuffy inside, but Moran turned and blocked the cold with his body. He backed Sherlock up against the door they'd just opened, a roof access point, one that Sebastian had discovered before very likely with Jim. Sherlock's back hit the chilled steel, but that part wasn't as uncomfortable as the bar of the door handle. Moran didn't care, or more likely didn't notice, as he pressed the length of himself up to Sherlock with a smile on his lips. "Bit chilly, but it'll have to do," he said in a quiet, gravely tone. To hear it was to understand where that metaphor began. The man’s voice was as rough as tires crunching into freshly laid dirt. 

The cold had startled Sherlock into a slightly more lucid state, but not anywhere near what could have been described as sober. Even the bar digging into his spine didn't seem quite real, though it certainly would later when he'd feel the bruise. He didn't have much room to move; Moran was pressed as close as he could manage with clothing in the way, pinning Sherlock against the door with his weight. 

Pinned with more than his weight, even. Sherlock found himself staring at Moran's mouth, wondering how many people had seen that exact smile before and hadn't lived to tell about it. "...do for what, exactly?"

It only spread wider. "No ideas? Not one?" Moran enjoyed the tease, letting his mouth draw closer to Sherlock's neck as he leaned in just that much farther. Along with it came a roll of his hips against Sherlock's, creating all the more friction with Sherlock's rear trapped against the steel. And Sherlock could feel something else, too, something that wasn't Moran because he could see where Moran's hands were slipping down his front on a direct path to regions lower. He could feel a warmth against the other side of his collar and a similar, familiar sensation running down his thighs. Jim. "I could make it a surprise," Moran offered with no less of that shark's grin, drawing Sherlock's attention. 

Sherlock swallowed hard. He'd known his interest in particular sorts of crime and criminals went further than what was considered the norm, but he was rapidly getting confirmation that he was more reactive than even he had suspected. Being trapped, if still within reasonably safe boundaries, _was_ giving him all sorts of ideas, and Jim's touches were only making the fantasies even more deranged. Moran's hand hit its mark at the same time Jim's tingling heat drifted just a bit higher up the back of Sherlock's thighs, and the detective shuddered. 

" _Everything_ is a surprise, at this point," Sherlock rasped.

Moran gave a deep laugh. Sherlock felt it reverberate through his chest just as surely as he felt it in his ear. And in his mind. Where Moran's came from deep within the man’s chest, Jim's laugh was more like the slick of oil sliding between Sherlock’s ears and together the two sounds made for a disorienting echo. 

"Sounds good to me." Moran's mouth opened over Sherlock's neck, hot and smooth and wet and very unlike the short stubble of Sebastian’s jaw that scratched as it slid against Sherlock’s skin. He heard the clack of his belt before he felt Sebastian’s hands undoing it. His trousers were undone just as quickly, and then Sebastian’s very warm and very firm hands were on him again, just like inside, only this time through the single, insubstantial layer of his shorts. 

Sherlock felt like he'd been thrown back into the first few days of his relationship with Jim, trapped in his body and mind. The difference was that, then, the situation had evoked horror, terror, and despair; Sherlock hadn't wanted Jim to touch him, hadn't wanted anything to do with him. Although Sherlock was still afraid in the current situation, and still firmly trapped, he didn't truly want to escape. He hadn't had to follow Moran up here. He _didn't_ want the man to stop, at least not yet.

Sherlock's breathing grew shallow and quick. His body was used to stimulation enough now that he tried to thrust against Moran's palm without really thinking about it, but all Sherlock managed to do was squirm. 

"Perhaps not a wholly unanticipated surprise...?" Moran remarked at Sherlock's arousal. Sherlock felt the edges of the man’s teeth as he smiled. He'd often compared it to that of a shark, not that Moran's teeth were especially small or sharp. They were actually quite blunt. It was more in the way it lifted at the corners, spread a little too wide and showed a few too many of those teeth to not seem just a little frightening. Sherlock could feel that smile pressed against the thin flesh of his neck as Moran's hand slid beneath the last barrier, lifting the elastic with practised ease. His fingers were a shock when they wrapped around Sherlock's heated erection, but Sebastian’s hand rapidly warmed between the heat of their bodies. 

Sherlock jerked at the touch; the back of his head hit the door with a dull thump, and he could feel Moran laugh against his neck. A laugh that was echoed inside his head. "Difficult not to anticipate... some of your intentions, given... the dance floor." Words were coming slowly. Between the alcohol and what Moran was doing, Sherlock couldn't think. Everything was slipping through his fingers into pure sensation and visuals. "But not expected. Or... experienced." 

Moran's hand twisted slightly and Sherlock bit back a whimper.

"Does that mean I'm technically your first?" Moran asked with a little too much satisfaction to be called a proper tease. 

_"_ I am." Jim's voice followed fast on the heels of Moran's, but his petulant snarl was only heard in Sherlock's head, and so it didn't hinder Sebastian’s touches. 

Until the man pulled his hand free to spit in it while the other worked at his own belt. When Sherlock’s attention caught on him, a hint of that grin returned, reading the startled expression that must have been on Sherlock's face, but Sebastian didn't turn him around, he didn't wrench Sherlock's trousers down his knees and kick his legs apart. Instead, he took himself out and, with his own cock aligned with Sherlock's, wrapped his hand around both.

Sherlock froze. Even his breathing stopped for a moment. The only movement was a shiver that spread through him at the touch, heat aligned with heat and stroked together. At least one question was answered; this felt like it had when Jim had slid against him. The difference was that he knew Jim, in a way, because they were so alike, because they had a history. Moran's history with him was attempted assassination, and resentment, and intimidation. 

And yet now the man was fixated on Sherlock, not entirely due to who resided within him, but for himself. Sherlock's breath finally left him in a slow hiss. "Not quite, unless you don't count ghosts."

That made Moran's breath hitch, and Sherlock could guess what he was imagining. 

"And what _hasn't_ Jim done to you yet?" Moran pressed close and whispered, hips rocking into Sherlock along with the rhythm of his hand. The other he let rest against the steel of the door behind Sherlock's head. He did it for balance, so his legs could spread wider and he could get up that much closer, but it didn't lessen the way Sebastian could make himself appear bigger, stronger, even when they were nearly eye to eye and very much up close. It wasn't a threat this time. Not...entirely. This time, there was something deeply, profoundly sexual about Moran's dominance. 

Sherlock's hands finally came up from where they'd been bracing against the door, settling against Moran's chest... but not pushing him away. Sherlock's fingers curled into the fabric instead. He felt like he'd lost all control, like Moran was holding him under water to drown rather than pinning him against a door to rut against. Part of his mind flailed backwards, trying to find something more solid to hold onto than what his body had found. "I don't... think I should answer that. He'll stop you just to make certain he gets there first."

Moran laughed with a genuine snort of surprise, the kind that told Sherlock he hadn't expected such an accurate assessment of Jim. From somewhere in the back of Sherlock's mind, Jim's presence dragged itself across his senses like a bead of electricity, just enough to make himself noticed. 

_"Good call,"_ Jim whispered, just as Sebastian began to speed up the pace. 

"We'll just have to make do, then," Sebastian whispered against Sherlock's ear before he took it between his teeth, oblivious to Jim worming himself through Sherlock's mind. Moran wasn't quite so oblivious the moment Jim brought the heat back, running down Sherlock's chest where they were pressed together and ending at his groin, setting all the nerve endings there alight. The few that weren't already. Sherlock felt it when Moran's mouth dropped open, releasing his ear, and heard it when Moran groaned. 

Sherlock wasn't certain whether this was about him, or about Jim. Jim was certainly doing his best to draw his and Moran's attention, and he could feel the way the blond's interest spiked... but was directed elsewhere. Anger pooled and surfaced in Sherlock, and he finally pushed against Moran's chest while he pushed at Jim in his mind. "...I'm _not_ just _transport_ ," he grunted. "I'm not here for you to use to tease each other."

An actual growl escaped Moran's throat and he pushed back. He'd dug in his heels, helped by his already widened stance, and fought to get right back up against Sherlock. "'S not about Jim," he grunted though Sherlock could hear the way Moran couldn't even say Jim's name without losing his breath. But Sebastian wasn't deterred easily. "Not like that anyway," he tried again, teeth clenched, the both of them held tightly in one hand and the back of Sherlock's collar in the other. "I don't mind having you both," and there was that curl of lip again, "but that's not what this is."

Sherlock could hear Jim's whispering laugh. He'd backed off some, but not nearly enough. _"I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock. Not for your sake nor for his."_

Sherlock snarled back and bucked against the hand at his collar and the chest pressing his against the door. His feet couldn't get purchase against the ground and their surroundings seemed to tilt and waver in his sight. "Then what _is_ this?" he ground out. "How you complete the game you've been playing with me the past few days? Or is this just desperation? We're both in love with a dead man and I'm convenient, so I'll do?" The words fell off Sherlock's tongue, but he didn't seem to realize what he'd actually said; he was too busy glaring at Moran.

His first clue was the way Moran stilled, caught between expressions until he slowly melted into one of disbelief. He must have spent long hours with Jim to perfect a stare like that, but his brows furrowed and, cautiously, something pulled at the corners of his mouth. A smile. And a crooked one at that. Moran's hand adjusted its grip, increasing the pressure on both of them. There was no way he didn't catch Sherlock's wince. "Well if you feel that way..." Moran began in what, compared to Sherlock's tone, was a hush, "then why not? We have something in _common_ now," Moran laughed, "Yes, it is convenient, but so what? That doesn't necessarily cheapen it." 

Sherlock's mind finally caught up, replaying his own words for him, and the color briefly drained from his features. He didn't stay that way for long. He couldn't, not with the way Moran was stroking them both, or the way he was suddenly focused on Sherlock's face.

Sherlock had traded in one impossible attachment for another, letting John go for a voice in his head and a body in his dreams. He bit back a frustrated sound. "I don't see how it doesn't."

Jim was eerily silent but for the hum of what felt nearly like electricity beneath Sherlock's skin, and if he focused on it, if he ignored Moran's sure fingers for just a second, he could feel it was spreading. 

"Cause for once, you're on my side. Well, not really, but I don't mind. 'United by Jim Moriarty', how do you like the sound of that?" Sebastian’s chuckle vibrated into Sherlock's chest, he was that close again, picking up right where he'd left off. "I don't find you any less interesting for your own sake. And we are going to be spending a lot of time around each other...." 

"I've not made a habit of doing this with people I spend a lot of time with." Or at all, really. Even now, Sherlock felt slightly unreal, looking back at Moran's predatory smile and too-pale eyes. He was the opposite of Jim in almost every respect, from appearance to demeanor. Moran's hand twisted and Sherlock couldn't help but writhe in response. "Although it's refreshing to hear that I've been upgraded to _interesting_. Does this mean you'll stop trying to intimidate me every half hour?"

"Not a chance," Moran replied with far too much mirth and affection to be warranted. Sherlock could feel the curve of Moran's grin pressed into his cheek. "It's one of my favorite things. Makes the time pass." Moran's hips bucked and made them both gasp. "And the way you look like you're ready to bolt when I do, every time....is just too enticing." Teeth grazed at Sherlock's jaw and dipped down to his neck. Sebastian wasn't the least bit sorry, nor apologetic for even Sherlock's sake. And he couldn't fool Sherlock that in the beginning it hadn't been real intimidation, that there hadn't been actual anger behind it, but...it was perhaps true that had changed somewhere along the line, or was changing now.

Sherlock couldn't string together the words to reply right away. Teeth on his neck was sending a hot, tingling rush through his whole body, and being overpowered only made it feel more intense. Sherlock could feel Jim too, just beneath his skin, watching. He didn't doubt Jim was making notes and formulating ideas for what to try later. Sherlock found the thought more thrilling than he would have even a week ago. "...you like your partners scared? I can't imagine that worked with Jim."

"No, it didn't," Moran agreed, "but yes, I do." His hand picked up again, causing the little puffs of air against Sherlock's cheek to quicken. Sebastian crowded him back against the door, back to where they were before, but this time pressed fully up against him with more...intent. Now that Sherlock had tried to get away once, Sebastian’s entire body told him he wouldn't let it happen again. And Sherlock could feel Jim spreading out, too. He stayed away from their lower regions this time, but soothing heat curled up Sherlock's neck, loosening his muscles, wound between his shoulders, fluttered through his chest, all in a way that spoke of endearment. 

Sherlock couldn't understand why Jim would want this, unless he viewed Moran as... a pet, a tool, a lesser and impersonal extension of himself. Even drunk, Sherlock was beginning to realize that Jim must have planned for this possibility, perhaps even aimed for it.

Something in the detective could never leave things alone. He challenged boundaries, he walked right up to the razor edge of a firmly drawn line, and then over. He plunged his hands into darkness without much concern for what might reach back. Moran was trying to project an aura of absolute control and dominance, and Sherlock couldn't just leave it unchallenged. One foot swept out to try to hook Sebastian off balance and he pushed again, putting up a struggle simply because he wanted to.

Sebastian tried to catch it, and catch himself, but he couldn't. His balance was shot with alcohol. His limbs were too slow. Their legs tangled together, but Sebastian grabbed onto Sherlock as he went down, thankfully coordinated just enough to release his hold on their more delicate appendages on the way, and Sherlock was dragged with him. 

Sherlock landed on top, but with the way one of Sebastian’s arms wrapped around the back of his neck and the other braced against his front, there really wasn't anywhere he could move. With a boot planted on the ground, Moran threw his weight into Sherlock, intent on flipping them.

Sherlock moved on automatic, his judo training kicking in. He tried to gain purchase against the ground and move out of Moran's grip before they turned over, but the bodyguard's fingers tangled in his hair and the front of his shirt. They were too close to the ground already for Sherlock to have room to work with. Sherlock put up a fight, but Sebastian managed to flip their positions and pin him. Sherlock grinned at the look Sebastian gave him. Already he was considering whether to try a striking technique or whether that might land him in real danger. "Not used to anyone fighting back?"

"Not used to being this drunk," Moran huffed a breath of air, but his surprise melted back into a smirk. "I like it when they fight." With that, he shimmied his hips between Sherlock's, nudging his knees apart, and rocked into him. "And I haven't seen anyone fight as well as you in a long time," The smirk turned into a grin as he did it again. The muscles in his shoulders rolled. He lifted himself to hover over Sherlock, using the weight of his lower half to keep Sherlock down. One of Moran's eyebrows quirked. "You sure you don't like it?"

"If I truly objected, I'd have said so, and you'd be hurting." Moran had left a few vulnerable spots open for a blow before he'd settled into his final position. Even now, Sherlock thought he'd be able to find something unless Sebastian pinned his hands, but he didn't know when Sebastian would consider the boundaries of play to be crossed. "I didn't do it to make you stop. I just didn't want it to be too easy."

A burst of laughter erupted from Moran, but he didn't stop. "I don't think anyone would consider _you_ easy," Sebastian said as he spit into his hand and let it wander low again to wrap around them. His face slackened before he caught his breath, and when the rhythm was steady, he leaned in close, the light in his eyes dancing with excitement. Sebastian hadn't known Sherlock personally for very long, but he'd known _of_ Sherlock for far longer. He'd researched Sherlock. He'd listened to Jim lecture about Sherlock. He'd studied Sherlock, as much as Sherlock could be studied. He would have known about Sherlock's lack of lovers, and his general distaste for romantic nonsense, even though he obviously hadn't realized just how little experience Sherlock actually had. His mouth caught Sherlock's lip, teeth first. 

Drunken pleasure still didn't completely counteract the ripple of fear that ran through Sherlock when Sebastian bit at his mouth. He wasn't used to thinking of the blond as anything but a deadly threat. Sebastian hadn't hurt him, not yet, but the potential for violence clung to him like miasma and rippled under his skin. Jim's malevolence was subtle, the hypnotic sway of a viper or a spider deftly gliding across a perfect web. Moran couldn't be mistaken for anything but predatory; it was built into his frame and written in tracery across his skin.

Sebastian’s teeth were sharp, but didn't press hard enough to break the skin. Only when he deepened the kiss did Sherlock make a sound low in his throat.

He heard one in return. Sebastian’s movements were getting more hurried, and he was getting more frustrated with their clothing. With his free hand, he jerked at the hem of Sherlock's trousers, yanking them over his hips and down just far enough so Moran could...could grab him from behind. Sherlock felt Moran's chest heave as he gasped, kneading Sherlock's flesh in his hands from both sides. It lifted Sherlock's hips just enough to make the angle of their strokes change, unexpectedly enhancing the friction. Moran's kiss grew more fervent. The grind of his hips became sharper. 

Sherlock gasped, both from the assault and the cold air hitting his skin. This wasn't comfortable at all, and he knew he never would have considered this if he'd been sober. One of Sherlock's hands clutched at Moran's shirt... and the other grabbed a handful of short, blond hair.

Sherlock had been considering his relationship with Jim to be, in essence, an anomaly. Sebastian seemed to be proving him wrong, at least in terms of enjoying sex with anyone else. One of Moran's fingers slid lower and Sherlock's eyes widened while his hips jerked in surprise. Kissing and handjobs seemed relatively safe, but Sherlock was no longer certain he knew what Moran intended.

Ice blue eyes raised to meet him under drawn brows, and Sherlock could see just how much Moran reveled at having him on edge. With a flash of white teeth Moran raised the hand and spit, and then it was right back where it was before. When Sherlock's chest rose with accelerated breath, Sebastian pressed his own down, squeezing him into the ground. Sherlock felt a finger slip down his tailbone, and farther. And then pressure. Moran smiled, his finger circling there while he slowed the rhythm of his other hand to a steady, torturous pace. He wanted to see that very look on Sherlock's face, Sherlock realized, and he was getting it.

Anger started bleeding into Sherlock's startled expression. The hand in Sebastian’s hair tugged, as if he could pull the man off that easily, and he squirmed to try to get out of reach. "Stop. Off. Not this." Sherlock couldn't think, couldn't express anything more than those short words. His instincts were screaming at him and he was just barely restraining the hand at Moran's side from moving to strike at the nearest pressure point, just to try to _force_ him away.

Sebastian’s hand paused, and Sherlock felt his head turn. "Really?" There was an actual note of surprise in his voice, and when he lifted his head to look at Sherlock, he had the gall to appear perplexed. "You and Jim haven't....?" Finishing that question would be even more awkward, and Sherlock's grip didn't show any signs of loosening, so Sebastian, with a reluctant lift of his brows, drew his hand up to rest at Sherlock's lower back. 

Sebastian’s expression only seemed to make Sherlock angrier. Sharp grey eyes flashed and the corner of his mouth turned up in a snarl. Sherlock still didn't have the leverage to flip them over, given Sebastian’s extra bulk, so he contented himself with pulling on the man's hair until his head tilted back. "What we've done isn't any of your business. It's about what I'm willing to let you do, and I'm not willing for that."

One corner of Moran's mouth quirked. "Your loss." He bent down to press his lips to Sherlock's ear, having to push against Sherlock's iron grip until it gave inch by inch. "Any other stipulations or demands you'd like to make while I'm still semi coherent?" Moran asked with a roll of his hips. He didn't seem very displeased, considering the force of Sherlock's reaction. There was a small smile playing over his lips, which he let brush against Sherlock's very sensitive lobe as he spoke and then kissed beneath it. His hand squeezed them both, giving Sherlock a not so subtle point of incentive to consider Moran's question carefully. 

Sherlock went quiet. His enthusiasm, if not his body's interest, had been dampened by the unwanted attention. As he thought, his gaze drifted back to Moran's mouth. Something about it was consistently fascinating and unsettling, attractive lines that stretched a little too wide and showed off more teeth than normal. Sherlock remembered how he'd started with Jim and immediately flushed at the image that came to mind. "...I don't suppose you'd suck me off?" he asked wryly.

Moran snorted. Then laughed. His eyes were full of amusement, bordering on malicious, as he considered. "You'd really let me have my teeth around your dick?" And he laughed again at the look Sherlock gave him. Reconsidering might not be an option. Doubly so when Moran lifted his weight onto his arm and made a show of mulling it over. He gave himself away by watching Sherlock squirm the whole time. Finally, he raised a brow. "Only if you return the favour." And again, his teeth flashed.

Sherlock hadn't seen the gunman without clothes, but he was able to make an educated guess about what he was agreeing to. Sebastian's grin wasn't exactly reassuring, but after a moment of considering Sherlock met his eyes and nodded. He couldn't be said to have much experience, but he'd done _this_ with Jim enough to feel a bit more confident about himself. A small part of him had to admit, if only to himself, that the threat of Moran's teeth was part of the appeal... but only because he knew he wouldn't actually get hurt. "We have a deal."

Moran's smile widened. "Then lie back." With the tips of his fingers, surprisingly strong, he pushed Sherlock's torso down to rest against the ground. It was cold, but Moran distracted Sherlock soon enough by moving down to his waist, fingers trailing a path down the buttons of Sherlock's shirt as he went. Sebastian found the loose hem of Sherlock's trousers and rolled them down even farther, sending another shock of cold into his bare skin. Steam from Sebastian’s quiet laugh rose up in the air. Before Sherlock had another chance to react, Sebastian was on him. Around him. Hot mouth surrounding his cock and sucking him down, tight and strong.

The sudden shock of it had Sherlock gasping, and his hips rose before Sebastian grabbed him and pushed him back down. The chill in the air and the discomfort of the rooftop underneath them faded into the background, no longer really registering in Sherlock's mind. His eyes slid closed for a few moments before he felt grounded enough to raise his head and glance down.

Sherlock felt a jolt of lust and adrenaline at the sight. Whatever complex logic his orientation followed, Sebastian evidently fell within the narrow band of people he found suitable. Sherlock bit off a choked sound when Moran's gaze flicked upwards with a smug, predatory glint.

He raised up slowly, Sherlock could feel his tongue dragging along the underside and popped off the top with an obscene sound. With a flash of a grin Sebastian was back down again. He didn't need to hold Sherlock's cock to do it, apparently Sebastian had some experience with this, so his hands wrapped around Sherlock's thighs, kneading at the muscle and making sure they stayed firmly wedged apart for him. 

Jim had made a lot of noise when he'd done this for Sherlock. Sebastian, by contrast, was nearly silent apart from the rush of his breath and the wet sounds of his mouth. The faint sounds of the street below and the dull, throbbing music from inside couldn't touch them. 

Sherlock made enough sounds to make up for the quiet. He had to bite down on the edge of his hand to muffle himself. His other hand drifted lower to settle on Moran's head, but instead of anchoring him, all it did was heighten the reality of what was happening. The head under his palm bobbed up and down, short blond hair tickling against his skin, and Sherlock's higher-level thoughts began breaking down. It didn't seem to matter how they'd gotten to this point, or what the later consequences might be. He didn't want Sebastian to stop, not even when he felt the sharp line of a tooth drag against tender skin.

It hadn't been an accident. Moran knew what he was doing because nails followed, digging into Sherlock's thighs and scratching down. They were blunt, just like Moran's teeth, but he didn't need them to be sharp or long. He knew how to use them. It made Sherlock's body twitch beneath him and _that_ got a sound out of Sebastian. A quiet little moan. Sebastian wanted to do it again as he lapped and sucked. Sherlock could see it in the line of the man’s shoulders when he glanced down. 

Sherlock's hands tightened. He was well aware that people did a variety of things within the boundaries of sexual behavior, but he'd not explored them. He'd been so terrified of sex in general that he'd only begun scratching the surface of all the possibilities with Jim. Sebastian clearly enjoyed inflicting pain and fear beyond interrogation rooms and his work in the field, but Sherlock didn't know if he enjoyed that sort of thing. Or, equally important, whether Moran had any sort of restraint. 

Living inside of Jim's line of work would suggest he didn't. Except, that was not necessarily true. Jim's work was not pursued for the sole purpose of carnage though carnage was so often the outcome, the same as money. There was a time Moriarty had spent months in the guise of a mild mannered actor in a children's programme during his daytime hours. It was very, very likely that similar kinds of restraint had been required of Moran for the work to be successful. But when the job was over.... Perhaps that was it. Sebastian had shown restraint living with Sherlock so far. He was restraining himself now. Because he was _patient_. And he wasn't a fool. 

He could be simply passing the time. As he'd as much said, this was convenient. Sebastian sucked with a twist of his mouth and tongue at Sherlock's head and for a moment he looked like that might have been all he needed, just sex. 

As far as Sherlock knew, Sebastian had never hurt Moriarty when they'd been together. If anything, the reverse had been suggested. 

Sherlock took a shaky breath and let his hands trail lower. They slid down the sides of Sebastian’s head, down his neck, and then his fingers curled at the base until his nails dragged across Moran's shoulders. It wasn't enough to draw blood, but it did leave a set of pink lines behind... and drew the man's attention upwards. Their eyes locked, Sherlock's full of questions while he tried to stare through Sebastian and figure him out. Understanding the gunman was going to be simpler than trying to understand himself.

What Moran had said before came back to Sherlock. Sebastian had found him...interesting. Interesting, in the way Moriarty was interesting. Even if Sherlock had none of the history Jim had with Sebastian, and the fierce loyalty that came with it, there were certain qualities Sherlock possessed that were very similar to Jim. Enough for Sebastian to think so, anyway, and if Sebastian thought of Jim as off limits then perhaps...perhaps Sherlock was not in so much danger that he should fear for his life. Even if he could see the desire coiling in Sebastian as clearly as if he could see into the man's thoughts. Whatever understanding Sebastian had had with Jim, he and Sherlock had not even begun yet. 

Large fingers curled into Sherlock's hip, nails digging in just deep enough to bite, and Sebastian watched Sherlock watching him back. He was...asking for permission, permission to give Sherlock just that much pain. 

"There are limitations," Sherlock whispered. He didn't want to fully agree until he knew what he was agreeing to. Mo Sebastian ran didn't know Sherlock's boundaries yet, and hadn't agreed to respect them. Even when he'd stopped earlier, Sherlock was uncertain it was over his own objections - it could have just as easily been because he feared what Jim would do in retribution. Sherlock's gaze flickered down to Sebastian’s mouth. The blond should have looked somewhat ridiculous, but Sherlock felt a pulse of lust and fear instead. He'd seen on corpses just what human teeth were capable of doing. "Stop if I tell you."

A smile flickered to Moran's lips and Sherlock felt his chest heave with breath. "Alright." 

And Sebastian was back down again, but this time he held Sherlock's cock with one hand, stroking lightly while his mouth diverted to land at the juncture between Sherlock's pelvis and thigh. And there he sucked. Sherlock felt a nip of teeth, dragging upward, opening wide... Moran's mouth caught on his hip bone, just below the jut of it, and sank down. He held Sherlock's leg with one strong hand while he stroked with the other, but his teeth didn't let go. It stung, sharp, almost too much. Sebastian held back, but only just. This was a taste for Sherlock as figuratively as it was literally for Sebastian. 

The bite hurt, undeniably. Even somewhat numbed by alcohol, Sherlock could feel the sharp pressure arranged in a curved line of points digging into his flesh. Instinct told him to buck, while the logical portions of his mind told him to stay still, that movement would mean risking injury that Sebastian didn't intend. Sherlock couldn't suppress the cry that came to his lips. He felt Sebastian’s body shift and his hand tighten while it stroked in response to the sound.

Sherlock didn't think he was supposed to find that erotic. Pain should have been dissuasive. Sebastian’s teeth were going to leave a livid bruise at best, and Sherlock couldn't help thinking of crime scene photos. He wondered what was going through Sebastian’s head.

Sebastian was breathing hard when he released Sherlock. Nearly as hard as Sherlock was. Sherlock's body trembled under his hands, but when Sebastian looked up again to meet Sherlock's eyes, to make sure that he wasn't about to be stopped, he must have recognized that significant spark in Sherlock's face. If anyone would have recognized an interest in this situation, it would have been Sebastian Moran. Sherlock saw the way his pupils widened until the irises were nearly gone. It had already been dark, but now Moran's eyes nearly rivalled Jim's with desire. With fluid grace he lifted his other hand to stroke Sherlock and moved himself to Sherlock's other hip. With too many teeth glinting in a wicked smile, he bent to bite again. 

Sherlock started questioning his own sanity as he watched those teeth descend. He inhaled sharply when Moran's jaw tightened. His hip burned, but it felt like a counterpoint to the hand stroking his cock, rather than something to flinch away from. The heat persisted as well; the skin on his other side still felt too warm, tingling and almost pleasant. Sherlock could easily picture what it would look like in an hour or two.

Sebastian used a bit more force this time, and eventually Sherlock grunted and tried to pull away. "Too hard." And yet he was still going along with this, still curious. Sherlock wondered precisely how much was wrong with him. 

When Sebastian pulled away, he was...surprisingly gentle. His tongue soothed the redness of the bite and his lips brushed a trail away from it. Back to Sherlock's cock, which he engulfed again in the heat of his mouth like a thank you. Or another counterpoint because suddenly Moran's nails were digging into the backs of Sherlock's thighs again. His grip was too strong and he wrenched Sherlock's legs apart for better access, all the while sucking him down. Perhaps it was because Sherlock was new to this, because Sebastian didn't want him to want to stop, but whenever Sebastian changed tactics, he made sure to offset the painful sensation with something pleasurable. When he dragged his teeth, his hands smoothed and massaged up the tops of Sherlock's thighs. 

Sherlock started melting into a mindless, twitching mess. Pleasure turned pain into a confusing mix of signals in his system, and pain kept the pleasure from becoming overwhelming. Sherlock had expected this to be an interesting experiment, but he hadn't expected to actually _like_ it. His body jerked under Sebastian’s mouth and hands, and the blond wasn't as quick a study as Jim, but he was still learning - exactly how hard he could bite, how deep he could scratch. Sebastian slipped a hand behind Sherlock and raked lines down his back, and Sherlock was embarrassed to realize the breathy moan that reached his ears had originated from himself.

It made Sebastian even more enthusiastic. His own sounds echoed Sherlock's. His tongue and his mouth picked up the pace until one hand cupped Sherlock's balled and the other dug nails into his behind and Moran sucked him down hard and fast. There was no doubt in Sherlock's mind that Sebastian was imagining many other scenarios they could act out. He braced his weight over Sherlock's lower legs and didn't allow him to move if he tried. If Moran had been atop him, lined up with him, inside of him, he would have been holding Sherlock down. Every other sweet stroke of his tongue was followed by the teeth now, even with the quickening pace. 

Pain was quickly becoming torment, not in and of itself, but for the fact that it kept Sherlock on the edge. Sebastian knew what he was doing, but his teeth were keeping Sherlock stuck just short of climax. Sherlock's arms weren't pinned, but he still felt trapped, helpless... and it was a far different experience this time than what he'd had those first few times with Jim. Sherlock had been frightened and resisting then. Choosing this apparently made all the difference; he felt high on adrenaline.

After a few minutes one of Sebastian’s fingers slid back to press against Sherlock's perineum, and the image that generated was enough to finally send Sherlock over the edge.

Sebastian stilled when he felt it, but he kept his mouth on Sherlock and his fingers pressing where they were until the spurts subsided. He pulled off only when Sherlock's body began to tremble with sensation.

As Sherlock lay with breath heaving against the cold ground, Sebastian crawled back up to rest his weight over Sherlock. He must have enjoyed the feel of Sherlock limp beneath him, for the only reason Sherlock wasn't immediately smothered was the one elbow Sebastian laid beside his shoulder. The man was hard, Sherlock could feel it pressing into his thigh, but Sebastian waited patiently for him to catch his breath, a proud smile playing around his mouth while he watched. 

Sherlock's eyes were still dark and more than a little dazed when he finally opened them and found Sebastian hovering right above him. Sebastian’s lips were flushed like he'd been kissing, and Sherlock shivered. Part of him ached, with the cold or from Sebastian's attentions, and they still weren't finished. Sherlock gave a breathy laugh and tried not to worry about whether his end of the tradeoff was going to be equally challenging; the length pressed against him felt intimidating. "...you seem to have enjoyed yourself."

Moran's smile glinted. "I very much did." His fingers rested like a weight over Sherlock's chest, pressing light indentations in the fabric of his shirt where sweat had dampened it. "Looks like you did, too." The fingers drew downward in a suggestive line. Sebastian only watched for a moment before his gaze lifted back to Sherlock. The man was probably surprised at Sherlock's enthusiasm over their 'experiment', but he didn't mention it. It was just as surprising that he could have tact. Or maybe he was just too focused on what he was about to get because Sherlock couldn't miss the way icy blue eyes dropped to watch his own mouth. 

Sherlock's breathing was slowing down, but his heart was still racing. He felt odd, being touched - he'd been touched so rarely during his life, and that had only changed recently... and Sebastian’s hands and body were very different from Jim's. Odd, too, to be touched outside of a memory, outside of his own head. Sherlock watched Sebastian stare at his mouth and licked his lips. "...you're going to have to let me up if you want that."

Moran didn't need to be told twice. He drew away, rose up to his knees, got one foot under him and then was standing, looming over Sherlock. At which point Sherlock must have looked like a frightened child on the ground. But Sebastian bent and offered his hand, and helped Sherlock back to his feet as well. It seemed Sebastian preferred to do this standing. Which meant Sherlock would be on his knees.   
But Moran's hands drew up his sides and he stepped very close and then those large hands were in his hair and Sebastian’s mouth was on his own. Sherlock was being pulled forward while Sebastian stepped backward until his back hit the wall with a dull thud. He leaned against it while the corners of his mouth curled up under the kiss. 

Sadism, Sherlock had expected from Moran. Someone in his line of work almost required it, given what he knew about the man's employ with Jim and what he could guess regarding his military history. The odd moment of gentleness before had been as unexpected as the courtesy of offering his hand, or this kiss. Clearly Sherlock hadn't gotten as accurate a read of Sebastian's personality as he'd thought. 

Bitterness hit Sherlock's tongue and he flinched slightly, still unused to the taste. Cold air on exposed, recently damp skin was sending chills up his spine. Sherlock tucked himself and his clothing back into place before his hands settled on Sebastian's sides. When the kiss broke he arched an eyebrow in question.

Moran raised both of his in return. His hands fell to Sherlock's shoulders. "On your knees, then." The curl of a smile was back on his lips and Sebastian's hands became heavy, guiding Sherlock down. The man's trousers were still open, that had to be cold, but between them this close all Sherlock could do was feel him hard against Sherlock's thigh. The club's music still throbbed behind them. In the distance they could hear people laughing below from the smoking section, their voices unintelligible from that far away and carried only on the wind. If Sherlock at any point during the next several minutes wanted to run, he was in a very bad position to do so, never mind being intoxicated. 

Sherlock sank down slowly, his gaze sliding from Sebastian's face to his promised task. The man's cock was already intimidating, but even more so at this angle. Sherlock swallowed and wondered just how this was going to work - Jim had been laying down every time they'd done this, and also hadn't forced the pace or depth. Sherlock wasn't certain Sebastian would extend the same courtesy. 

Grey eyes flicked up to find Sebastian watching him expectantly, his smug smile still firmly in place. Sherlock kept his eyes on Sebastian's face and opened his mouth, running his tongue slowly from the base to the tip, then taking in the head.

Sebastian exhaled with a low sound. In some twisted form of sympathy, he swiped his tongue over his bottom lip, eyes fixed on Sherlock, and Sherlock knew from that point on that at the very least he had Sebastian's undivided attention. And enthusiasm. Which would hopefully make the task easier. Just as long as the man didn't decide to choke him. Blunt teeth caught between Sebastian's lips as he waited, the rest of him perfectly still, hands resting heavily on Sherlock's shoulders, but taut as a wire all over. 

Sherlock fought to focus. He felt heavy, blood rushing through his veins, time dragging around them like swirling water. The streetlights and club sounds seemed far away, like the rooftop was suspended far above it all. Sherlock took a deep breath and then dropped his jaw more, just barely remembering to take care about his teeth - he wasn't certain whether Sebastian also enjoyed receiving pain, and he didn't want to test the theory quite yet. He took his time, setting a steady pace and gradually taking more of Sebastian's cock as he became more confident in what he could handle. It helped that the man was still letting him have control; he had a tight grip on Sherlock's shoulders, but he wasn't trying to draw him in or control the rhythm.

Sherlock could latch onto Sebastian's breathing as an indicator of how well he was doing, and so far it sounded like he was doing well. It was a deep, steady intake and exhale, no moans yet, but Moran wouldn't take his eyes off Sherlock either. Once he'd started to get comfortable, edging his tongue around a little bit, Sebastian's hands lifted. Sherlock caught the flicker of the man’s smile widening when he saw the movement startle him. The hands drew up the back of Sherlock's neck, tangling in his hair on either side, still gentle, but.... But this was the perfect position for Sebastian to take control. At any moment. Even though he was waiting, smile widening as he watched Sherlock continue to work with the subtle risk of what he could do in the air around them. 

Sherlock's nervousness must have shown on his face, judging by that smile. What he didn't know yet was whether Sebastian would be satisfied with that or whether he'd want to follow through on the threat. Sherlock was certain that being forced wasn't pleasant, particularly since he hadn't figured out how to take all of the man's cock without triggering his gag reflex. It would take very little to choke him.

Still, Sebastian didn't move. Sherlock glanced up, watching for any signs of the man's intentions, and finally let his hands wander, running up the insides of the man’s thighs. Sherlock tried to remember and mimic what had been done to him, cupping Sebastian's balls while his other hand slid up beneath the hem of the man's shirt. Sherlock's eyes went a bit distant as he mapped out what he was feeling - toned muscle and ridges that had to be scars.

Sherlock heard Sebastian's chest rumble. Apparently he liked the feel of Sherlock exploring. The fingers in his hair twisted where they were tangled, but not sharply, just a reaction. But then there was a flash of that pink tongue again as Sebastian looked down at him and he must have decided he quite liked that because the fingers twisted harder. They didn't release until Sherlock winced. And then one of them loosened to stroke at his head. It wasn't a movement natural to Moran, Sherlock could tell that much. It was something he had picked up somewhere, seen done before, felt before.... 

Jim. That was the kind of comfort Jim gave when he'd done something wrong and wanted to appease Sherlock.

Curiosity bled into Sherlock's gaze. He wondered again just what, exactly, the relationship between the two men had been like. He hadn't expected that Jim would have cared enough to console Sebastian that way - enough times that Sebastian would have picked it up. He couldn't imagine Jim letting himself be truly dominated either, and the brief interaction he'd seen when Jim was in control suggested that Sebastian had enjoyed the role reversal... but it was difficult to tell whether that was because he enjoyed it naturally, or whether that was a byproduct of his feelings for Jim. Jim... who'd been unusually quiet.

Sherlock let his exploring hand slide around to rest at the small of Sebastian's back. He decided to risk adding teeth to the equation.

That drew a groan from Sebastian's throat, but there wasn't much pleasure in it. Sherlock could tell if not for the tone then by the way his hair was jerked taut. Still, Sebastian didn't exactly stop him. When Sherlock paused, Sebastian guided him to continue. The man had said he liked a fight. When Sherlock's teeth scratched again, Sebastian's voice sounded again, but still he didn't stop Sherlock. He could take pain. Pain wasn't the principle here, not for him. Having dominance was. And Sebastian hadn't lost that, so when his hands encouraged Sherlock to quicken the pace, it was out of enthusiasm.

Pain wasn't Sherlock's focus either, so when he saw he wasn't drawing any true interest from Sebastian, he resumed what he'd been doing previously, if a little faster. He wondered whether his results would be different if he managed to get the man subdued again, like he'd been when Jim and he had ambushed him at his hideout... and then blinked, realizing that that had just assumed that he intended on doing something like this again. 

After another moment's thought, Sherlock found he couldn't truthfully deny that he was curious. Sebastian's attitude at present wasn't particularly exciting, but it wasn't offputting either. Sherlock watched the man's face while his hands continued exploring and he sucked. He found himself wishing he knew what Jim had done to Sebastian; he wouldn't have minded causing the same expression on the blond's face that he'd seen in the kitchen.

Below him Sebastian's feet shifted wider apart. His hands were still cupping Sherlock's head, guiding him with hair twisted through Sebastian's fingers, but it wasn't too rough. Sebastian's breath was coming faster. Sherlock could feel a quiver in the muscles of his abdomen. He was getting closer. At this rate he would finish far faster than Sherlock had, but then again he had been wound up for longer, and with fewer reservations about the whole thing. When low moans started escaping his lips, his grip grew tighter. 

Sherlock could feel the way his body became focused, all of it, chasing the single goal of release. 

It was becoming harder to breathe, at this pace, and Sherlock was beginning to feel light-headed. Sebastian's cock grew noticeably harder under his tongue, and Sherlock could feel the rest of the man's anatomy tightening as he drew close. It wouldn't take much more now. Sherlock would have felt flattered but for the fact that he knew this wasn't a commentary on his skill, or the degree to which Sebastian might find him attractive. This was merely the result of denial, a lack of outlets. Sherlock shouldn't have felt disappointed about that. He had no emotional investment in the man, after all, but his self-esteem had always been a fragile thing.

Sherlock's nails dug into the skin right above Sebastian's hip, trying to draw his attention down. At the very least, he didn't want Sebastian pretending he was someone else.

He heard a grunt from above and Sebastian's hands tightened on his head even harder. There was no question he was staring a hole into the top of Sherlock's head, watching his length disappear between Sherlock's full lips. No, Sherlock wasn't Moriarty and he wouldn't get the same reaction Jim received from Sebastian, but Sebastian wasn't imagining Jim either. He could see Sherlock. He knew who the man in front of him, bent down on his knees and giving him pleasure was, and Sebastian may have hated him once, but there was no reason for that now. It was a good thing the man could let certain things go. Even if it somehow turned into...this. Sherlock felt Sebastian bend, double over him. His head was gripped still. Sebastian's hips jerked. There was a groan from above, and suddenly his mouth was filled with warm fluid. 

Sherlock nearly choked, surprised even though he knew what was coming. Sebastian wasn't letting him go so Sherlock had no choice but to swallow. Sebastian must have felt it, as the fingers in his hair tightened just a little bit more. Sherlock wanted to pull away and gasp for air but he couldn't move, not until the other man released him. His knees were starting to ache from the rooftop and he felt vaguely... dirty, compromised in a way he hadn't after he'd done similar things with Jim. He'd not wanted to stray too far from Jim afterwards, while now all he wanted to do was put a bit of distance between himself and Moran.

It didn't look like that was an option because before he knew it, Sebastian was sinking. His cock slipped free but his hands didn't release Sherlock until Sebastian was down on his knees right where Sherlock was, and even then his hold only loosened enough to readjust his grip on Sherlock's hair, drawing him forward. Sebastian's mouth hit his own before Sherlock knew what to expect, and then he was being kissed. The taste lingered between them. Sebastian's tongue was delving into his mouth, not caring the way Sherlock had about the taste. If anything, Sebastian seemed to be drawing it out of him, enjoying it. He was tipping. Sebastian was pushing him down without breaking the kiss until Sherlock's back hit the ground, and when Sebastian finally let go, there was a smile on his face that reached his eyes. 

Sherlock felt a warmth brewing in his chest, confounding at first, until he recognized it as Jim. A particularly pleased Jim. 

He felt exhausted all of a sudden, and just as confused and lost as he'd been the first few days after adjusting to Jim's presense. He'd never understood some aspects of people very well, and everything about this was firmly located in the deep end of human interaction where he had a tendency to fail and drown. Sherlock stared up at Sebastian with a questioning look, unable to determine just what had put that expression on the other man's face - his compliance, or relief at finally getting some release, or some other interaction between the chemicals filling Sebastian's bloodstream and aspects of his psyche. 

_"...why did you want this, Jim? Why this, why him?"_

_"We're all here together, now,"_ Jim whispered back, just as warmly as the way he felt nestled in Sherlock's chest. Sebastian was smoothing Sherlock's hair back into place, setting his rumpled clothes to right, before doing back up his own trousers. It was such a strange gesture to receive from the man, that Sebastian would consciously or unconsciously think to take care of Sherlock's appearance was...unexpected. But then Sebastian was helping Sherlock back to his feet, swaying just a little, and it really was too chilly to be standing outside this high up any longer. 

"C'mon," Sebastian wrapped an arm around Sherlock's shoulders and drew him back to the door. Sherlock was unsteady enough that he didn't have much of a choice but to accept Sebastian's help. He was more acutely aware of where their bodies touched than his surroundings.

Heat swept over them once they stepped back inside the club, more than welcome after the chill that had settled into Sherlock's bones. Still, it was too much - too much noise, too many lights, too many people and things to look at. Sherlock's head filled with static; he closed his eyes, swallowed, and shook his head to try to stop the tangle of thoughts that were turning into nonsense in his head. He had to tug on Sebastian to get his attention, but eventually the man bent down enough for Sherlock to murmur in his ear. "'m done. I want to leave."

"Not gonna make it back like this." Sebastian's fingers dug into his shoulder while Sherlock soaked up his body heat. "Let's get a coffee and sober up. I know a spot down the street." He led the way back through the floors of partygoers, or dancers and drinkers, people celebrating a birthday and the regulars who showed up every weekend. Sebastian paid attention to their surroundings so that Sherlock didn't have to, and once they left through the front door, Jim kept him warm. 

They left behind them the cacophony of sound and lights and voices from the bouncers and the crowd. All of it faded into the distance as Sebastian led Sherlock down the narrow sidewalk. They might have been the only ones left alive but for the glow of an all night shop at the other end of the block. 

Sherlock followed in a daze not unlike the ones he remembered from his days of substance abuse. Street-lights seemed watery and cast the world in unreal, artificial tones, and it was too quiet for someone used to the constant hum of London. Even the sky was quieter, in a way, missing the intense light pollution that the city had. Sherlock's head turned up in distraction, examining the few visible stars scattered through the gloom. He couldn't name a single one. All of that data had been deleted as inconsequential, but that didn't make the sight any less beautiful.

Sherlock felt the hand around his shoulder tighten and steer him away from a near-collision with a pole. That was enough to finally draw his attention back down from the sky. He flushed at the amused smile Sebastian shot him.

The door of the convenience store chimed when they entered, a sound both quaint and out of place for being so. The coffee wasn't going to be the best, but Sebastian led Sherlock up through the small isles until he could pour them two travel mugs, and let Sherlock rest against his side as he did so. Sebastian wasn't sober, but he was good at mucking through on as steady of legs as he could manage. The clerk at the register eyed them only slightly as he rang up their charge and soon enough they were back out onto the street with Sebastian leading the way again. This time, they stopped only two doors down. Sherlock had to squint through the mouldy window pane to make out the sign of a hotel. 

"Up we go," Sebastian slipped his arm under Sherlock's shoulders again and led him up the steps while Jim hummed pleasantly in the back of his head. 

Sherlock wondered what Sebastian meant by this, as he wasn't in a fit enough state to try to deduce what was running through his mind. Most likely he just wanted to get a space for them to sober up while warm; the air outside had taken on a slight tang, and rain was coming to augment the cold temperature. Waiting outdoors until they were able to drive wasn't going to be a pleasant option, perhaps not even a safe one. Neither of them were dressed for a night exposed to the elements.

The woman at the service desk looked up from the novel she'd been reading, and her eyebrows rose at the sight of them. More so when Sherlock ordered a room and handed over a few notes to cover the charge. The woman kept glancing at his neck while she processed everything and handed over the keys, and a slight smile curved the edges of her mouth. Sebastian and he were halfway up the stairs to the room before Sherlock realized that the gunman must have left a mark on his neck earlier.

The way Jim tried to sooth his mind with warmth wasn't helping fight the tiredness. Tiredness that Sebastian must have been feeling, too, because he had to prop Sherlock up against his side when they made it to their door to unlock it and stumbled somewhat awkwardly through after. It banged shut behind them on shoddy hinges. And there they stood because their room contained one bed, one couch, one chair, and a lamp. 

Sebastian tossed the keys on a night stand and sighed, toeing off his boots with one hand against the wall. 

Sherlock managed to stumble through to the room's tiny bathroom, leaning against the door after it shut behind him. He felt a bit better after relieving himself and splashing cold water on his face, but not any more alert. A glance in the mirror told him that he'd guessed correctly; a bruise that could only have been made by a mouth was visible above his collar, stark against his pale skin. Sherlock felt too tired to be embarrassed, or to worry about whether the attendant downstairs had recognized him and would gossip later.

He returned to the room and headed straight for the bed, only stopping to remove his shoes once he was sitting on the edge.

Sebastian seemed to have disappeared until, in a double take, Sherlock looked at the couch. There, resting flat on his back, face buried between his arm and the side, was the gunman. Out cold. 

He'd given Sherlock the bed. Intentionally. 

Before Sherlock could dwell on it, Jim turned his usual subtle caress into a pull towards the mattress, towards comfort and rest and oblivion. He didn't need to say anything, every touch was enough to draw Sherlock toward sleep. 

Sherlock spared a glance to the abandoned coffees growing cold on the room's small table, another for the form awkwardly sprawled out on the couch, and then he pitched backwards onto the mattress. He was past the point of caring about anything but sleep. He felt Jim twined around him, hot under his skin, and for a moment a small smile graced his lips as he imagined Jim draped across him like a blanket. The poor quality of the mattress made little difference to Sherlock, as he lost consciousness within a matter of seconds.


	15. Chapter 15

Waking the next morning was an awkward affair. 

It didn't help that both Sherlock and Sebastian barely remembered where they were or where they’d parked the car, or that they even had a car. Once that was sorted out, once they were showered, found some fresh coffee, and on their way back to the city proper, neither knew precisely how to address their current situation. 

Sebastian, as usual, continued with silence. Apart from the way he'd shot up from the couch that morning and looked about, taking stock of his surroundings, he seemed mostly at ease thereafter. But Sherlock could read the subtle thread of tension underneath it. The man wasn't cold anymore, but there were subtle signs he didn't know how to treat Sherlock now. 

If anything, it was only Jim who was truly at ease. He spent the whole drive back with a pleasant hum inside Sherlock's head, nearly crackling in the air around them. Jim had brought his little troupe closer together. If that was truly his goal, it had been accomplished. 

Over the next few days, however, Jim's mood soured progressively. 

Sebastian's changed attitude may have helped somewhat, but it didn't extend to his power games. He continued to try to intimidate and corner Sherlock, becoming less subtle as time grew on, and gradually he added a flirtatious undertone that Sherlock didn't know quite how to deal with. 

It had been a relief when Lestrade finally texted him about a case. Sherlock jumped at the opportunity - to get out of the house, and to bury himself in the Game and try to lever Jim out of the bored slump he'd been sliding into.

Two days later after Lestrade’s invitation, after a mad chase around London, two building explosions, and a shootout, the case came to a less-than-thrilling conclusion. A rash of cyanide poisonings turned out not to be an old-fashioned family feud over inheritance or an attempt at theft or revenge by one of the family’s hired staff, but a truly incompetent and convoluted meth ring that capitalized on the ill health of a few of the family elders and the rather flexible ethics of their private medical attendants. 

Sherlock sat on the back edge of an ambulance and grudgingly let a nurse patch up the graze wound on his upper arm while Lestrade chewed him out, once again, for going in without backup.

Inside his mind, Jim chewed him out for another reason entirely. The former criminal was deeply, thoroughly unimpressed. Unimpressed by both the competence of the suspects they'd apprehended and the competence of Lestrade's forces. And so, even while Lestrade paced circles and ranted from one side of Sherlock's ears, Jim did the mental equivalent and ranted just as loudly, although ineffectively, at Lestrade and the entire Met by extension. He couldn't stand them, and what was worse, he couldn't see how Sherlock put up with them, or why he had thought it would be a good idea to bring Jim along. In Jim's opinion the entire police force could go jump off a bridge for the kind of idiocy they had exhibited, idiocy that had resulted in Sherlock, and himself, running like rats in a maze around the city all day. And what was worse, all for such equally incompetent criminals. 

And then it started to rain. 

Lestrade stopped, pinching the bridge of his nose, not wanting to stand out there any longer than he already had been, and looked at Sherlock like nothing he'd said had gotten through. Although, to be fair, this time it wasn't entirely Sherlock's fault he was having trouble paying attention. 

Sherlock looked drawn and sullen, and when Lestrade opened his mouth to speak again, he finally snapped. " _Yes_ , I heard you. Not waiting for your sluggish team to mobilize allowed me to keep Mr. Hartell from setting off the building and getting away, doubtlessly adding to the body count, destroying crucial evidence needed to prosecute, and allowing further toxic substances to leak into the sewers. A scratch on the arm was well worth it."

His eyes shuttered and he barely paid attention to Lestrade's indignant response; his focus had turned inwards, regarding Jim with no small amount of dismay. _"They were idiots, yes... but you didn't enjoy the chase? Not even when the block of flats combusted? Or the way they were so boldly transporting ingredients under the guise of medical supplies?"_

Jim gave a mental sigh, which Sherlock heard loud and clear. _"Your ability to leap through moving traffic is quite impressive, and yes the decimation of a block of flats was entertaining enough, in and of itself, but I'm sorry Sherlock, the case and criminals lacked any qualities of lustre or interest beyond being at once, paradoxically, both exceedingly dull and obnoxiously brazen enough to attempt a feat so over their heads as to leave no chance they_ wouldn't _be caught."_ Droplets of rain fell into Sherlock's bangs and trickled down his temple. He must have looked just as sorry as he felt, because Jim sighed again and toned down his ire. _"Leaving myself to the mercy, the hope, of other people's criminal endeavours has never been a draw for me. And this is why. They all. Fall. Short."_

To anyone else, Sherlock would have appeared to be wool gathering, or sulking, and so it was no surprise that once his arm was patched up well enough, Lestrade sent him on his way. 

Sherlock's trip home took longer than normal. He was distracted enough to miss a few opportunities to flag a cab down, resulting in an introspective walk while getting drenched to the bone. London was quite beautiful like this, shimmering and full of reflected lights, but Sherlock didn't care. His high from the case had fallen almost instantly, the moment it became clear that Jim hadn't been entertained. Sherlock had never understood the mood reference about going to one's own funeral, but he thought he had the gist of it now.

Cases were not going to be enough to sustain them. Sustain Sherlock, yes, but not Jim, and Sebastian was still a wildcard he didn't know what to do with. For once, Sherlock was at a loss.

Sebastian was getting restless. Jim was getting restless. Sherlock had been an admiral sulk all his life, but Jim could be a terror. Sherlock hadn't yet seen the full extent of it, but when Jim's mood turned black and he turned into the furthest reaches of Sherlock’s mind he could find to curl himself up as tight as possible, it seeped into everything. It killed Sherlock's mood. It made Sebastian antsy. It made strange things happen. And soon enough Jim was going to get so bored that he wouldn't try to contain it anymore. 

Sebastian had taken to sneaking out of the flat. Only at night, only twice, and only because he was certain where the video cameras were, but that didn't bode well for Sherlock either. Even out of the flat, there wasn't much Sebastian could do. Both times when he'd returned, he bore evidence of twigs on his sleeve and mud on his feet and Sherlock knew he hadn't actually interacted with anyone. He'd gone for a walk, or rather, a skulk. 

In short, they needed something to do. 

One cab right later, dripping onto the worn and stained back seats before being dumped on the doorstep of 221 Baker Street, Sherlock began to feel a chill that had nothing to do with the cold and damp. He felt hounded, hedged in like he'd been at the start of this, with only two options for moving forward: doing what he didn't want to do, or letting himself be destroyed. Sherlock wouldn't put it past Jim to try to end them both in a fit of black, bored despair if it got bad enough.

He climbed the stairs slowly, dragging his feet, not wanting to face what was coming.

When he opened the door he found Sebastian on the couch, spread out like he had been at every other point over the last few days, laptop on his lap and one finger drawing idly across the trackpad. He didn't look up as Sherlock trudged inside. Jim, however, sent the door slamming behind him, making them all jump. Sebastian's eyes darted up to him. 

One light brow arched. "Case not go so well?" 

He needn't have asked. The look on Sherlock's face said it all. Inside, Sherlock could feel it start. His stomach was sinking in a way that, at first, felt like anxiety, but then it kept dropping and dropping until it could only be Jim sliding down through his insides with that black mood of his. 

The lights flickered. 

_"Let's go to bed,"_ was all that Jim whispered in his head, ignoring Sebastian as though he weren't there at all. 

"Why, so you can kill me while I sleep?" Sherlock muttered. He spared Sebastian one sour glance before heading to the bathroom and shutting the door. He wasn't going to go to bed cold and dirty from London rain. Numb fingers worked at fastenings and slowly peeled sodden layers from his skin. Sherlock dropped them in a pile on the floor and started up the hot water. His spirits didn't lift once he got under the spray, but it warmed him up at least.

He felt the cool touch of air that shouldn't have been there crawl up his chest. Jim didn't have the presence of mind to warm his caresses and it made goosebumps prickle across Sherlock's skin. He had at least stopped Jim's descent into whatever deep pit he'd made for himself in Sherlock's core, a place that was more unsettling the worse Jim felt. 

_"Worried about my state of mind, are you?"_ Jim murmured in the air. _"And not for my sake. Here I thought you might be growing to like me,"_ he added with a hiss of a laugh. 

Outside, Sherlock could hear Sebastian banging around in the sitting room. Exercising, again. Probably.

Jim might not have disappeared ominously, but his touch was no less eerie. Sherlock felt distinctly reminded of the cool touch of corpses, which didn't help his imagination or his sense of alarm. It didn't matter that he was right underneath the showerhead; Jim's touch overrode whatever external senses he was feeling, emphasizing his presence by the contrast of the hot water. _"Don't play at being insulted. I've been worried about you before now, but you've been fairly clear about what happens to me when you decide you can't bear existing like this any longer. I haven't changed my mind about my own desire to live."_

Sherlock got the very distinct impression that Jim was slithering up close. _"Then help me."_ The cold points of pressure danced along his collar bone and down over his heart. _"I don't want to kill you..."_ Jim trailed off before he said what they both knew would become a lie soon enough. He turned back to optimism, but there was a note of breathless desperation to his words. _"If anyone could do it, it would be you. Your mind could be put to so much more than playing the Met's bloodhound."_ Sherlock felt Jim's cold presence constrict around him, too caught up with his own distress to take heed of Sherlock's discomfort. 

Bitterness crept through Sherlock and he felt his throat close up. He'd started to care for Jim, but that wasn't enough to nullify his own feelings about being cornered. "'Help me, so I don't murder you out of boredom.' 'Dance to the pull of my strings and do what I always wanted, or I'll try to commit suicide again by destroying you.'" 

Sherlock turned to face the spray and shuddered. His body was trying in vain to throw off the uncomfortable touch. "I was happy before this, you know, or as much as I could manage. And you just couldn't leave me alone - not in life, and not now. I'm tired of having my hand forced, of not having any choices. And don't say that I can choose to resist and let you kill me, because we both know that's not much of a choice."

 _"Boo hoo."_ Jim hissed. _"What are you going to do about it? Whine at me until I go away? Who knows, it might just work."_ He let a beat of silence calm his words, interrupted only by the patter of the shower spray and Sebastian's faint sounds. _"In life, I would have manipulated you into this...this little situation we have, to get what I wanted,"_ notes of truth rang in his murmur, _"Perhaps the outcome is the same, now, but I have no other method to satisfy this...need. Take it as you will."_ Ice rested over the back of Sherlock's neck, right where the hairs would have been standing on end. _"If you won't help me then I will see how far I can go with Sebastian."_

"And what, precisely, does _that_ mean?" Sherlock snapped at thin air. "You can mock me as you will, as I can't very well stop you, but don't pretend you wouldn't go mad if the tables were turned. You'd be just as pathetic if you were caged and medicated within an inch of your life, forever prevented from ending it or escaping, with the only offered stimuli being to help dullwitted government agents. You'd resent being collared and forced by virtue of having no other options."

Jim went silent, but there was the strangest tone to it, if silence could have a tone. Something Sherlock had said had caught his attention. The stinging prickle of ice receded. 

_"'Caged and medicated,' Sherlock?"_ Jim honed in on it like a laser. _"Now that doesn't sound very familiar. ...are you perhaps, just perhaps, more upset with your dear big brother's influence on your life than you are with me?"_ The press of cold down his back didn't warm precisely, but it was less intense. _"Because it **sounds** like, under his wishes, your family's expectations, et cetera and et cetera, working with dullwitted government agents was the only option left open to you."_

"And just look at what happened with that," Sherlock grated. "Poor Mycroft, carrying on like he was the wounded one. Getting upset every time I strayed outside the lines and embarrassed him. Sometimes I did it just to get back at him for his presumption. Something you're drifting very close to."

Sherlock shut off the water and quickly dried, wrapping a towel around his waist and darting from the bathroom to his bedroom. The door shut with a click behind him.

 _"Is that all you're capable of? Reacting?"_ Jim whispered. _"Had you any desire for more, you might have shared in my interests all on your own. But it looks like you've given in, in the end. Gone and made yourself content to play within the bounds of the playground Mycroft has built for you. You think I'm doing all this just to get you to do my bidding? You really have gone and taken my role of villain to heart. I do this because I would like some company and I would rather burn all the world and myself up with it than play within the confines of someone else's rules."_

"You of all people should know I'm capable of more than that, but only when I have avenues open to me. It's an exercise in futility when you have no leverage or power in a situation, and no real hope of gaining any." Sherlock's towel slid to the floor and he tilted back to fall onto the mattress, staring sullenly at the yellowing plaster of the ceiling. "I took pieces of what Mycroft wanted and made something different that worked for me, and he knew better than to try to push me further. You're not asking me to live without playing by other people's rules. You're insisting, on pain of death, that I adopt yours. Your rules, your framework, your choices and lifestyle. And, I suppose, expecting me to happily submit to your every whim and stay besotted and grateful to you for forcing my compliance."

Sherlock snorted, and his hands curled against the duvet. "I would have thought you'd know me well enough by now to realize I respond much better when tempted instead of threatened."

Jim's snort was so derisive it cut the air with a crackle of electricity. His built up tension was turning into built up static. _"It's not all or nothing, you know. You fear so much that I'll overpower your will after a few waltzes through my territory. Or do you simply believe it impossible? To live as upstandingly as you've done so far with a few less than savoury jaunts on the side? Because if you do, you have very little faith in me. Richard Brook and his counterparts would have a word to say in my defence."_

Just as Jim had been trailing off there sounded a crash from the sitting room, followed by a truly miserable growl. 

_"Doesn't sound like I'm the only one either."_

Sherlock's gaze flicked towards his bedroom door, still shut. "I don't think I'm living upstandingly according to how most people would define that word. The problem is that I have no leverage. No recourse except what you're allowing me, if you allow me anything. I can't banish you, and you can't latch onto someone else as a vessel, and even if you could, I doubt you'd do it. You're not someone who only takes halves, either. If you don't demand it upfront, eventually you'll want everything, and my choices are again going to be 'give in or Jim kills you'."

Even if Jim didn't want to end him now, the destructive ennui that followed after boredom would eventually, someday, ensure it. It was possible that if it came to that, Jim might seek to end only himself, but unlikely. They were...attached, somehow. There was no telling if Jim could in fact move on while Sherlock was still alive. Nor that he would care once that state of mind took hold of him. 

Surely Jim saw it, too, because Sherlock felt his silence almost as clearly as his whispers. 

_"What can I do for you?"_ Jim asked, _"To allow you some measure of...solace?"_

Sherlock pressed a hand to his face and exhaled. He could feel the tension in his body creeping up, shattering into painful splinters right behind his eyes. "...don't force me. If you want me to try something, don't make me try it at gunpoint while insisting it's for my own good, or that I'll enjoy it. I'm not averse to trying to keep you happy, keeping some measure of peace between us, and you don't have to threaten me for that much."

Sounds of pacing from the sitting room caught Sherlock's attention and summoned a thoughtless, wistful notion... and envy. Sherlock had enjoyed the worshipful aspect of John's companionship. Jim's obsession wasn't quite the same thing, and it would never be the same, but Jim had something similar from his pet sniper. The same sniper who'd not known how to act around Sherlock after they'd returned from their little holiday.

Inside his head, Jim gave the equivalent of a sigh. It was once of concession. ...before his attention followed that of Sherlock's.

 _"You could get him to look at you that way if you wanted him to, you know."_ Damn Jim's ability to track Sherlock's thoughts outside of his mind palace, still an unsettling aspect of their relationship. And yet his tone wasn't taunting. He held no malice or resentment that Sherlock had the potential to even attempt to interact with Sebastian in the real world. _"He's as curious about you as you are about him. I think you can tell."_

Sherlock colored, but it was pointless to deny his thoughts, and it was difficult to remain embarrassed after being consistently flustered for the past few weeks. Flustered and depredated. "He's different. Simpler, but not lacking in complexity to the point of being boring, as most people are. I miss... well, having a shadow in the usual metaphorical way."

Sherlock's hand fell from his face back to the bed. "...be patient. Find something small we can work on together, for a start. Just to try it. Something you'd think would catch my interest, rather than just insisting I'll like it once I try it."

Jim's touch turned warm where it rested, weighty under the skin of Sherlock's chest. It was something. That concession might be enough for Jim. For now. Depending on what he conjured up out of the new webs he'd been laying with Sebastian. 

_"I may have the very thing. Give me a few days to work out the details, and I will bring it to you. For you to either accept, or refuse."_ That sounded very considerate of Jim indeed. _"If you refuse, I'll use Sebastian instead. But I give you my word I'll leave you out of it."_ Jim's touch turned into a caress down Sherlock's cheek. _"Though keep in mind, if you do join us on this little excursion, how much fun it could be working together. I can imagine exactly how much Seb would enjoy it."_ Jim's attention rested pointedly on the silence from the sitting room.

"Fair enough." Sherlock appreciated the caresses and Jim's changed tone, even if he wasn't completely mollified by either. It was just the way Jim was, and he didn't mean anything by it. Sherlock found that to be a small consolation. Jim conceding slightly and agreeing to give him some space and time, and at least the pretense of a choice, had done the most to ease the tensions between them.

"I don't know that Sebastian has the patience for a few more days. He's sneaking out of the flat again like an overgrown alley cat."

 _"You should let him hear you say that."_ Sherlock could _feel_ the wry grin in Jim's voice. His warm touch walked down Sherlock's ribs. _"Or catch him."_ The pressure landed at Sherlock's navel and waited. 

If Sherlock listened very, very carefully, he could hear the creak of floorboards from the upstairs room now. Near the window side. Sebastian probably already had it open, halfway onto the roof. He probably wouldn't enjoy being caught out, even if Jim was amused by the idea. What Jim had insinuated about them working together was more likely to put Sherlock in better graces with Sebastian. Unless Sherlock decided to join him on his jaunt around the park, or whatever he did when he slipped out.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. He rolled off the bed and got to his feet before Jim even heard a thought of intention. Sherlock wasn't thinking - not when he slipped through his own bedroom door or quickly moved up the stairs, headless of his state of undress. He'd had long practice to know just where to step without the stairway creaking, having taking his current route many times to check on his former flatmate throughout the night.

The door to Sebastian's quarters hit the wall with a bang, just as the man looked to be getting ready to squeeze through the window and climb up onto the rooftop. Sherlock stalked across the room and seized Sebastian's arm with a slight snarl, heedless of the way Sebastian's gaze tracked over him in confusion. "And just where do you think you're going? It does none of us any good for you to be seen and put us all at risk just because you're incapable of living indoors like a civilized person."

Sebastian hadn't the decency to look embarrassed or anything other than surprised when Sherlock pulled him back inside. The window came slamming down behind him. And then, after the man’s shoulders had gone rigid from the sound, anger began to seep into his posture. He stepped into Sherlock's space, and something about the way they were of a height, Sebastian's heated, flashing eyes staring directly into his own, gave the spark between them a certain intensity. Thankfully, Jim had quieted. 

"I am going _out of my mind_ being cooped up in here," Sebastian said evenly. 

Sherlock had had enough of being pushed around, and of walking on eggshells to try to avoid setting off the other two men. Sebastian had spent a good deal of effort trying to intimidate him, but at the moment Sherlock felt strangely... invincible. Even if he was staring a trained killer down in nothing but his skin. "So you decide to risk everything to jump around on rooftops, hoping you don't miss spotting any of the hidden cameras plastered across London, particularly around areas I frequent. Cameras which, incidentally, I happen to know the locations of. What is with the two of you and your refusal to bloody well _ask_ before doing something that could impact me?"

Sebastian's eyes dropped. Not in contrition. Sherlock was nude, and Sebastian had apparently not noticed until it was Sherlock's turn to dole out accusations. Unfortunately for Sherlock, this meant that his anger went rather over the former bodyguard's head. When Sebastian's eyes lifted, there was a question in them. It was the same one they'd been dancing around since the club. 

Sebastian's head lowered, fixing Sherlock's gaze without the anger from a moment ago. "Would you have said yes if I asked nicely?" 

"Maybe I would have, provided I was able to accompany you, or at least point out where some of the more difficult cameras are located. But," Sherlock continued quietly. "You _didn't_ ask. You didn't think about the possible repercussions, not just for myself, but what I might have to do if you got caught. And you must not have cared, because surely you didn't think I was so stupid that I haven't been noticing your outdoor jaunts."

One of Sebastian's arms moved as if to reach out, and Sherlock stepped back in response, tightening his own grip on Sebastian's other arm and twisting slightly. His eyes narrowed. "I wouldn't think of trying anything, if I were you."

One corner of Sebastian's mouth curled. It wasn't for show, Sherlock could see that much. Sebastian was desperate for some form of stimulation and it looked like Sherlock had just become the center of his attention. "You sure? Because staying in just got a lot more interesting." Sherlock felt the muscle and tendon in Sebastian's arm tighten, and there were those teeth again, flashing wide before Sebastian's body came alive. He swept forward, crowding into Sherlock with the anticipation of confrontation rolling off him nearly as tangibly as Jim when he was upset. Except Sebastian wasn't upset any longer. He was _excited_. "I think you should make good on that threat." 

Sebastian had barely gotten his words out before he had to stumble to keep his footing. Sherlock had started to move, twisting aside and using the blond's momentum to throw him off balance. Sherlock kicked out and barely missed sweeping one of Sebastian's ankles out from under him. 

When the bodyguard was finally facing him again, Sherlock had moved back a foot into empty space, waiting. His posture was clearly that of someone trained in martial arts, tense and alert instead of passively standing open to attacks.

Sebastian looked a little surprised, but he faced Sherlock, face split into a grin. "Now that's more like it!" he shouted, like he could expel energy with his voice. He moved like he could throw it off himself in waves, crouching low and slinking in wide steps to circle Sherlock, forcing Sherlock to turn in what little space they had to anticipate his attack. Sherlock caught a flash of tongue swiping across white teeth, deliberate, as Sebastian all but leered at him. "We should have done this sooner," the man's voice rumbled low. 

"Oh, I'm well aware of what would have happened if we sparred too soon." Sherlock ducked a swipe from Sebastian's arm. The two of them circled slowly, each looking for an opening. Sparse as the furniture was, there wasn't much room to move. "I think you would have been a little more focused on hurting me if you managed to get a few hits in."

Sebastian's confident grin widened and he launched into a set of strikes. Sherlock avoided all but the last, knuckles barely clipping the side of his face. He countered with a snarl, landing a blow on a pressure point near Sebastian's ribs. 

A heel kick thumped harmlessly off the floorboards as Sebastian darted back out of reach. His grin was pained when they faced each other again, but still just as wide. His arm curled to his side before he deliberately moved it away. 

"Maybe so," Sebastian had to concede, "Good thing my interests have shifted since then." He laughed as he ran at Sherlock, a bold move, especially with Sherlock's feet flying into the air again, but Sebastian ducked his head and took the blow to his arm and shoulder, while he threw his weight into Sherlock. It was crudely done but it effectively knocked Sherlock off his feet and into the wall. Sebastian nearly went down with him. Blue eyes caught the light in delight, but then something heavy screeched across the floor as he took a step back. Sebastian tripped and was laid out flat on his back just as quickly. 

Sherlock felt dark amusement colour the air.

_Jim_

Sherlock quickly took advantage of the situation. He sabotaged Sebastian's attempts to get back to his feet, kicking and grappling while the man tried to get a bit of space. After a few more moments they both went down in a tangle, Sherlock firmly pinning Sebastian in a hold that, if he struggled, could easily dislocate or break the trapped limbs. Both men panted heavily.

"...had enough, or am I going to have to make certain you're not going to attack me again?" Sherlock muttered. The body underneath him shook in what had to be laughter.

"Gonna break my arm? Not sure that would be much deterrent. I don't think I'd need two arms to fight you again." Sebastian didn't particularly sound like he cared whether he won or not, or maybe he was testing Sherlock's limits. Sherlock could feel Sebastian’s wiry muscles tense and contract under his hold with what little between them there was. "Tell me this doesn't get your blood pumping the way it does mine." Sebastian craned his neck around as far back as he could, trying to catch Sherlock's eye. It didn't really work. All Sherlock caught was a sharp brow and a sliver of blue. 

Sherlock hesitated for a moment too long, and his silence answered for him. He watched and felt the body under his hands pull tight, all potential energy, potential violence just barely contained in flesh and blood. It reminded him of animals he'd seen and touched - the raw power of horses, the crippling strength of pythons. Sebastian wasn't entirely human in Sherlock's mind, at least metaphorically. 

"Well, there's my answer on how you managed with Jim. Masochist as well as a sadist." Sherlock tugged slightly, pulling one of Sebastian's trapped arms to its limits. "Is that how he tamed you? Fought you down into submission?"

Sebastian let himself gasp. There was pain in it, there was still the desire for a fight in it, and there was something else in it too. "Among other things." Sebastian wasn't too embarrassed to admit Sherlock's accuracy now that they were like this. "You might have noticed he doesn't usually take to just one tactic. But oh yeah...he likes to have his fun." Jim's 'fun' was likely the only way he allowed Sebastian to be with him...like that. Sherlock heard Sebastian's voice drop. He barely saw the man's lip curl before the hips beneath him shimmied back, rubbing up against Sherlock.

Sherlock was caught off guard. He'd understood that Sebastian's aggression and preferences shifted and became flexible where Jim was concerned, but he'd figured that Jim was an exception that was bourne out from a period of adjustment. Either Sebastian's boundaries were wider and more flexible than he'd thought, or the man had associated him with Jim enough that Sherlock was now an additional exception.

"...now this is interesting." Sherlock prided himself that his voice remained steady. Mostly. "Is this encouragement towards Jim's sort of 'fun', or are you attempting to find out what my ideas are?"

Sebastian tried to wrench his head around again to no avail. Still Sherlock saw the raise of his brows. "You have ideas?" 

Sherlock felt a spark in the air. Jim's attention had been caught, as interested in this turn of events as Sherlock was. 

"I know what Jim's kind of fun is like," Sebastian continued. He couldn't move, so all Sherlock could do was feel the flex of his lithe muscles again and see the flick of his tongue wet his lips. Jim's presence constricted, reeling in from the edges of the room to focus on them, but thankfully he was still calm. 

Sherlock's eyes tracked over Sebastian's shoulders, watching muscles coil and tense beneath the skin and the thin layer of his shirt. Neither of them had quite dared anything after their drunken rooftop interaction. Sherlock wasn't even certain how he felt about the man.

From the way Sebastian was speaking, all of his body language, he was curious. Perhaps curious enough to let Sherlock experiment. "I have some idea," he finally admitted. "I hadn't thought you'd be... pliable to certain degrees. I also wasn't certain how much of what happened was alcohol paired with frustration."

He felt the body under him shake with a laugh. "Well, I won't say that it wasn't. But that was only the start of it. Just like you caught me now..." Sebastian had as much of a tendency to provoke Sherlock as Jim had, but he wasn't just coy. The man couldn't be sure Sherlock would want anything to do with him at all, but even when he ground his arse back into Sherlock again, there was certain kind of control, a certain kind of defiance, about him. 

_"Hit him."_ Jim's voice slithered through the air, so soft Sherlock barely heard it. It seeped through his head from one ear to the other in perfect stereo. 

Sherlock kept his grip on Sebastian's locked arm. With the other, he drew back, curled his hand into a fist, and punched. There wasn't enough force to severely hurt the man, but Sebastian's grunt told him that he'd succeeded in striking hard enough to warn. A sliver of creativity had Sherlock reaching up afterwards to grab a handful of short blond hair and tug Sebastian's head back. At this angle, Sherlock could see his adam's apple move as Sebastian swallowed. "None of that, now. You're not going to be in control."

Sebastian was reeling, but Jim was reveling. Sherlock could feel it, the way Jim drew in all around him like a cloud heavy with rain. But he didn't touch - he let Sherlock be - though he wanted to. Sherlock knew that much. Jim desperately wanted to. 

Sebastian spit, and flecks of blood came with it. Apparently Sherlock had cut his lip. Sebastian's chest was heaving with breath. He'd gone still, but Sherlock could still feel the muscles in his body tensing and relaxing, wanting to move even more insistently than he'd wanted to before. Shockingly, Sebastian's reaction wasn't anger. Sherlock couldn't see, but every signal Sebastian's body was giving him said that he was becoming aroused. "You're really gonna have to make me," he spat in challenge. 

_"Again,"_ Jim whispered. _"Harder."_

Sherlock let his breath out slowly. The sound was soft and relenting, which made it all the more shocking when Sherlock released Sebastian's hair to strike him again. Sherlock's mind was turning over remembered pieces of video from his earlier research, noting angles and force levels. Sebastian made a most satisfying sound when Sherlock dug fingernails into his back and dragged them down in sharp lines. "Are you certain? You might want to reconsider. I'm nicer than Jim, but that doesn't mean weaker. If you give me too much trouble, I'll simply take his advice. More than I already am."

Sherlock felt Sebastian's breath stop. "Is he....did he tell you to....?" 

_"Make him shut up. Don't give him time to respond. Hurt. Him. Take him."_ Jim's voice floated through Sherlock, reverberating in his head, crackling with electric pulses down the back of his neck and in between his shoulder blades. _"It'll be a fight, but don't let him touch you. Don't give him time."_ Jim didn't touch Sherlock's hands, but he could feel everything inside of the spirit urging him on, and strangely, he could practically feel the same from Sebastian. Not tangibly, like Jim, and Sebastian wouldn't expect it, but there was something in his voice that didn't sound like betrayal. 

Sherlock was on unsteady ground; it wasn't really in his nature to be violent without sufficient anger to motivate him. He struck Sebastian again, and it was enough to stop the man speaking, but the action was pure mimicry. He had to find an emotion to substitute for anger, or the whole performance was going to feel noticeably hollow, and Sherlock doubted Sebastian would enjoy and appreciate a pale shadow of what he seemed to want.

Inspiration came with a revelation; Sherlock had searched through a number of memories for an approximate emotion, and the closest he could find was... possessiveness. Particularly regarding his ex-flatmate: every time John had nearly been harmed by a criminal on a case, and every time his attention had waivered on the newest girlfriend, until one finally succeeded in drawing him away.

Sherlock tapped the old memories. A spark lit in his eyes before the next hit, and he wrenched Sebastian's arm just the slightest bit more to remind him that his was pinned. The word that hissed out from between his teeth was a surprise to them both. " _Mine._ "

He felt the way Sebastian stiffened. Felt the goosebumps spread out across his flesh. He could feel Jim thrumming with excitement, leaking it, permeating the very atmosphere with it. 

Sebastian jerked with a snarl, ignoring the pain, trying to twist himself around, trying to get another elbow in Sherlock. It was an attack, the first move. He could dislocate his arm like this, but it was all he needed to do to provoke Sherlock. 

_"Now,"_ Jim hissed. 

Sherlock had only a split-second to make a decision. He felt a jolt of regret and pulled just a little further - not enough to tear anything, but enough that Sebastian's arm dislocated with a soft pop. Sebastian cried out and thrashed against Sherlock's hold and the tangle of their legs, and Sherlock gripped the back of the man's neck. "Stop that. You don't want to hurt yourself. Or are you going to make me take care of the rest of your limbs, as well? I'd rather not if I don't have to."

Sherlock saw blue eyes shut tight. Sebastian allowed himself a deep groan of agony, but it was through clenched teeth and lips. Sweat curled down his temple, glistening in the light of the street below. Sherlock could feel him trembling. 

Then most fascinating thing happened. Sebastian's hips shifted, and his legs spread apart. It was by degrees at most, but Sherlock couldn't miss the unspoken communication. 

Jim's presence prickled over Sherlock’s skin, making the hair on his arms raise. Jim was everywhere, whispering an undercurrent of _"Yes, yes, yes,"_ as though he could thread it inside the very air, making Sherlock and Sebastian draw breath with it. 

This may have been alien to Sherlock, but something told him that it wasn't to Sebastian. It would have been years now since he'd been in this situation. With Sherlock following Jim's instruction, familiar actions, and with knowledge that Jim was present if unseen, the memories must have been slightly overwhelming.

Sherlock released Sebastian's neck and stroked fingers through his hair. He couldn't quite understand this yet, but he was paying rapt attention to the blond's reactions. "That's better. I'm going to release you from the lockhold, now, and you're going to stay still." 

Sherlock knew that Sebastian had likely only ever allowed Jim to do this, and Jim had been gone for years. Despite what had happened thus far, Sherlock didn't truly want to hurt the blond, not unless Sebastian _wanted_ to be hurt. He couldn't imagine that Sebastian would enjoy sex without preparation to ease the way. 

Slowly, he untwined their limbs, watching carefully for any twitch of movement that signaled Sebastian was getting ready to fight.

There came only a wince of pain and a grunt as the man’s arm was released and its weight resettled against his back. Even through the fitted material of his shirt, Sherlock could see the way the humerus rested outside of its pocket, making Sebastian's clavicle far more pronounced. The repositioning quickened his breathing until Sherlock moved away and he had a few moments to allow his nerves to settle. 

Jim did not follow as Sherlock moved across the room to search through Sebastian's things. He felt himself drawing out of the oppressive cloud of the spirit's presence before it coalesced around Sebastian, who trembled on the floor, a second gasp emanating from his throat. It was hard to tell whether Jim was causing him pain or pleasure, or simply running prickles down his spine like he so often did to Sherlock, just to let his Sebastian know he was there. Whatever it was, it didn't last long before Sherlock felt Jim draw back around himself instead. 

It only took a few moments of digging through Sebastian's belongings before Sherlock found what he was looking for. He'd made an educated guess that this was the sort of man to keep lubricant for himself even when unattached, and he'd guessed right. A small bottle had been tucked away in one of the man's duffel bags, still unpacked. Or perhaps perpetually packed. Sebastian seemed to have lived a life constantly on the move, so it might not have occurred to him to ever stop living out of suitcases and travel bags.

Sherlock was faced with another dilemma when he sank back to his knees beside Sebastian. He needed at least _some_ cooperation from the other man to remove his clothing without damaging it. "...lift your hips."

It turned out that was all that need be said. If Sherlock had any doubt whether Sebastian was having second thoughts, it was swiftly cast aside when the man not only complied, but worked his good arm underneath himself with a groan to undo his own trousers and help Sherlock push them down. Bringing his weight up to his knees involved a cascade of muffled curses as it shifted his shoulder, but soon enough his trousers and shorts were halfway down his thighs and Sherlock could see he was already hard. 

Sherlock felt a prickle of warmth against his ear that was perhaps Jim's version of a kiss.

Sherlock was relieved. Sebastian's enthusiastic, if pained, compliance eased his own doubts. He reached around and stroked Sebastian in encouragement, and a slight smile touched his mouth at the hiss he heard in return. Sherlock cracked top of the lubricant bottle open and coated his fingers, then got to work. One finger slipped into Sebastian easily enough, but Sherlock didn't want to rush. _"...will he fight back, if this doesn't hurt? Isn't violent?"_

 _"No,"_ Jim whispered into his mind. _"You've already proven your own brutality and authority to him. That is what makes him comply. If you wish to give him more, he will accept it, and he will do so gladly. He will never accept a master until they have proven themself to him, absolutely."_ Sebastian groaned beneath him, free hand reaching back for Sherlock, trying to draw him in. _"Normally, a dislocated shoulder and a few harsh words would not have been enough to prove anything, unless you kept at it repeatedly. Fortunately, you have me on your side. I have given you my blessing, and we are tied in his mind now. I have handed my power over him to you."_

Sherlock paused, withdrew his hand, and grabbed Sebastian's wrist to press it back down to the floor. "You don't touch me unless and until I give you permission," he chided. With that completed, he turned his attention back to what he'd been doing, adding a second finger and working towards a third. His gaze remained speculative as he watched Sebastian's reactions - the slight shivering, the way he pressed back with his hips now that he wasn't allowed to pull Sherlock forward. _"...does he only enjoy it, or enjoy it better, if there's pain? Or do you not know? I'm having trouble imagining that you were ever truly gentle with him."_

 _"He does not, typically, enjoy pain. He enjoys violence. He enjoys the battle, as you knew from the very first moment you met him. When he enjoys pain, he enjoys it because I give it to him. Because he enjoyed my own violence, my innate proclivity for destruction. It was...a form of affection, one that he and I could understand, even though we both knew it was not true affection. If you are violent with him, he will be starved for gentleness, and then when you are gentle, even for one moment, it will be a thousand times sweeter."_ Sherlock felt Jim thrum with warmth around his body. 

Sebastian was writhing again, whispering against the floorboards. "C'mon..."

Perhaps a middle road, then. Sherlock withdrew his hand, spared a moment to reach for the bottle and coat himself, and in the meantime leaned down... and sank teeth into the tender flesh of Sebastian's side between his ribs and his hip. His intention was merely to do something small to balance out the ways Sebastian might be disappointed, as Sherlock was certain he wouldn't have the heart to match Jim in viciousness.

He knew the bite was a mistake as soon as blood hit his tongue. Sherlock wasn't thinking clearly, or he would have recalled just how this same impulse had gotten him in trouble before, even if it was out of compassion this time instead of anger. His hands moved to Sebastian's hips and his jaw clenched tighter for just a moment. Sherlock moaned low in his throat, and after a moment of stillness he moved like a flash, straightening up, aligning them, and pushing in more quickly than he'd originally intended.

Sebastian groaned and didn't have much time to react, but Sherlock felt his hips rise and shift to accommodate the burn. He nearly turned, but was hindered by his shoulder, lancing pain sending him down again, flat on his stomach while the jostling motion, the tightness and clench of his muscles rubbed all around Sherlock. It was a nice view, too. Sebastian hadn't bothered to dress warmly for his midnight excursion, and though he hadn't removed his shirt, it was very thin. Sherlock could see every line of his back and arse. Strange, that a man such as this could be beneath him, that Sherlock could be inside him, and such a contrast from Jim who, while unquestionably male, was small and...rather pliant.

For all that Sebastian was graceful, he wasn't as flexible as Jim. His legs weren't spread as wide, and Sherlock had to shift a bit until he found a comfortable position. The feel of the body in front of his was also undeniably different. Where Jim was trim, Sebastian was solid, all hard and densely packed muscle. Sherlock found himself incredulous for a moment not only that had he managed to subdue this man, but that Sebastian was allowing this even after Sherlock had released him from the bonelock hold.

Sherlock started off slow. Nice as the view was, he found himself wishing he could see the other man's face. After all of Sebastian's leers and scowls and attempts at intimidation, it would have been refreshing to watch him come undone like this.

He could hear Sebastian's breathing turn laboured, and it didn't sound like pain. Even though Sherlock hadn't been inside him long. Even though his shoulder had to be in agony. He turned his head like he'd done earlier, trying to look back at Sherlock, but the pain in his shoulder wouldn't allow him to get more than halfway before he had to stop with a hiss of breath. His hips shifted, rocking back against Sherlock every time he thrust. As much as Sebastian could, mobility limited. 

This time Jim wasn't still. Sherlock could feel the tingle of him running down his neck, over his back, around his waist, caressing and urging Sherlock on.

Slowly Sherlock sped up, vaguely hypnotized by the sight and feel, the knowledge of who Sebastian was and the things he'd done... the patterns of scars visible on his exposed skin, and the slight trickle of blood from the bite mark above his hip. He ignored Jim's whispered urgings, the temptation to go faster and just take. This wasn't about Jim, or what Jim would have done; it was about himself, and gaining back some sense of control and power in his life, and he didn't want Sebastian to think of Jim and himself as the same. He wanted his own control, desire for himself, and not just to be an extension of the ghost living inside him.

Eventually Sebastian's breathing began to shift, becoming more vocal, and Sherlock couldn't resist any longer. He wanted to see, and wanted the other man to see him as more than a half-glanced outline. Sherlock stilled and pulled out, then tugged on Sebastian's hips. "Turn over."

Miraculously, Sebastian obeyed, and without protest. Even in spite of his shoulder, which twisted roughly as his weight shifted, carrying him smoothly from his front to his back. He couldn't hold back a shout of pain, even if he could force his body to obey him. But it was over soon enough, and there was the man who'd been haunting Sherlock's flat just as insistently as Jim, who'd never let his nerves rest any moment they were in the same room, who looked at Sherlock like he wanted to eat him alive and acted like it, too. And for once he was lying on his back, beaten and compliant. 

Sebastian reached for Sherlock with his good arm. 

Sherlock snarled and caught Sebastian's wrist. Fingernails dug into the skin. "Did you forget what I told you already? You don't touch unless I tell you that you can." 

Sherlock's other hand raked nails down Sebastian's chest and stomach, then reached down to align them together again. "Legs up. You can wrap them around me if that's easier, but don't try to control it, or there will be consequences." Sherlock's hips snapped forward again and he smiled at the hitch of breath that followed. "...if you want to touch, you're going to have to ask."

One moment of silence later, after Sebastian's hips lifted and his legs bent to wrap around Sherlock, he spoke. "Can I touch you?" 

Sherlock had never heard his voice like that. It was low, but gone was the mockery, the niggling challenge, the fight for dominance. It was just as he'd asked, a question without pretense, simple and straightforward. Sebastian wasn't begging, not as the term usually implied, but for Sebastian, this was submission. His fingers curled and flexed, his breath came heavy outlining the muscles in his chest and abdomen every time, but he was staring at Sherlock, at Sherlock's nudity, and there was desire in his gaze. 

Sherlock didn't reply for a long moment, thrusting slowly while he watched Sebastian. It was both a matter of wanting to tease the man by drawing the moment out, and because Sherlock wanted to record this for later - Sebastian's exact expression and tone, how he was fidgeting with impatience and desire. Sherlock was still shocked that he hadn't had to fight the man into submission more than he already had. 

Finally, Sherlock inclined his head. "You may touch, until I tell you not to."

Sherlock saw Sebastian's stomach tighten before he saw anything else, and then Sebastian was lifting himself up, teeth clenched at the pain, but reaching out for Sherlock all the same. His hand met Sherlock's side, large fingers wrapping into the dip of his back, thumb caressing the slant of his hipbone in the front. And then Sebastian was right in front of him, legs braced and stomach taut to keep his balance. Sherlock could see every ridge of his old scars, every line in his face, every individual hair of stubble and brow. The hand at his hip moved up to his back and Sebastian's lips parted. "Can I kiss you?"

Sherlock's eyebrows rose. Whatever he'd expected from Sebastian, this wasn't it. Not after all their other interactions. It was almost unnerving to see the face and form he'd associated with aggression and violence suddenly turn so submissive and affectionate... or as submissive and affectionate as a man like him could get. Sherlock stroked a hand up Sebastian's side and felt a slight stickiness when his palm grazed over the bite mark. 

Sherlock didn't respond with words. He fell on Sebastian instead, hungrily pressing their mouths together and picking up the pace of his thrusts. For once, Sherlock felt like he actually _was_ in control.

Sebastian held that way for an impressively long time, even rocking back against Sherlock as much as he could, but gradually he began to sink back down, gravity at work without an arm to brace himself. He pulled Sherlock with him as he went, mouth still hungrily pressed against him and unwilling to let go until Sherlock was bent over him. Sebastian's body was like a furnace. Sweat dripped at his temples, and that detail] as much as his occasional groan told Sherlock how he was struggling against the pain. But there was pleasure, too. His breath hitched when Sherlock thrust. He clenched tight and rose to meet Sherlock every time, easier now that they were in a better position for it. 

Jim's presence still hung in the air, but he finally let Sherlock take over. 

Sherlock had to slow down every now and again to keep this from being over far too soon. Sebastian was all heat and exquisite pressure, and even when he was this willing there was still an undertone of danger. Sebastian could still hurt Sherlock if he'd really wanted to.

Sherlock took his time exploring and observing. He leaned most of his weight onto one arm, leaving his other hand free to sneak under the hem of Sebastian's shirt and map his skin. His focus sharpened, noting every change in Sebastian's reactions when he altered the angle of his thrusts, touched in a certain way, let a hint of teeth or tongue into a kiss. Eventually Sherlock's hand wrapped around the cock trapped between their bodies.

That was when he felt Sebastian stiffen, felt him buck up in earnest and then wince as it moved his shoulder, only to do it again a second later. He was gripping tight to the pleasure and ignoring the pain as best he could. Sebastian couldn't block it out the way Jim could, the way Jim did it had been unnatural when he was alive, but Sebastian could take it. He could endure for the sake of something better. Even if his hand gripped Sherlock tighter, latching onto the back of his neck, growling every time they broke apart. Whenever Sherlock took a moment to read his expression, he looked desperate. 

Desperate was exactly what Sherlock wanted. If Jim was associated with the unreachable, with pleasure and limited affection that only came with a generous dose of pain, Sherlock wanted Sebastian to regard him differently. He wanted to be the counterpoint, accessible so long as Sebastian played by the rules. He could fill desires that Jim wouldn't... so Sebastian would come back for more and let Sherlock retain control. After feeling completely powerless for so long, he craved power over _someone_ , and Sebastian would do nicely.

Sherlock paused just long enough to spit into his hand. When his fingers closed around Sebastian's cock again, he started moving with single minded focus, stroking in time to the thrust of his hips. 

Sebastian's eyes twisted shut at the pleasure before he seemed to realize what he was doing and opened them again. His mouth fell open, but no sound came out. He had in fact, besides grunts and his entreaties to touch Sherlock, been nearly silent. Instead he let Sherlock read into his body language and see his expressions. But he was becoming more vocal now, hitches and grunts that turned into whines. Deep as they were, they were definitely whines. 

Sherlock felt Sebastian's grip tighten before he felt anything else. He saw teeth clench and then Sebastian's whole body was clenching, arm be damned, as his legs locked around Sherlock and an iron grip pulled him down, pulled him closer, harder, faster. And then Sebastian was coming, slick between Sherlock’s fingers, and the man's head fell back, back arched, body frozen in motion. 

Sherlock drank the sight in and felt a heady rush of power, and then he was following, buried as deeply as he could get in the body clenched around him. He bit back a moan and his arm finally gave way. Sherlock collapsed atop Sebastian, heedless of the sweat and cum, and took a few moments to catch his breath. The man still hadn't let go of him - not with the hand gripping the back of his neck, or the legs circling his waist and locking them in place.

Pleasurable lethargy tugged at Sherlock, but he resisted. He still had something more to do, one more thing to try to set the dynamics between himself and the blond for the future. He attempted to move off of Sebastian without much luck. "Let me go and stay here," he finally muttered. "I'll be right back."

He saw pale lashes blink dazedly out of the corner of his eye. Sebastian's chest was taking in deep breaths of air beneath him, still disoriented enough that he didn't react at first. He gave a grunt of confusion, but when Sherlock tugged again, Sebastian's fingers loosened and he slipped free. Sebastian, however, remained exactly where he was, sprawled out on the floor, arms wide by his sides, trousers kicked away, legs bent and open. He looked wrecked and his eyes never left Sherlock. 

Jim still swirled the air, though his presence has quieted considerably. In the last minutes, they'd barely felt him. 

Sherlock hesitated in the doorway, glancing back one more time before heading downstairs. The image followed him, and Sherlock only paid half attention as he walked to the bathroom and cleaned himself up, then gathered supplies. A few minutes later and he was trudging back up the stairs with a small armful.

Sebastian was still where Sherlock had left him, if slightly less dazed. Sherlock gave him a pleased smile as he returned to the man's side and set out the things he'd gathered. "Let's get you cleaned up and back in order, shall we? You get a choice. I can either put your arm back with, or without, pain medication." Sherlock took the damp washcloth he'd brought with him and began washing off Sebastian's stomach, but his gaze barely left the man's face. "Which do you want?"

Sebastian gave a choked laugh. "Really don't think it matters at this point. Just reset it, I'll take the pills later." He moved just enough to allow Sherlock better access, sitting up again with a struggle that showed on his face. It looked like it was getting harder and harder for him to move without showing signs of pain, leaving it like that for as long as he had. He allowed Sherlock to crouch beside him, watching his hands as he touched the shoulder, finding whether the humerus had been pushed forward or back. He didn't make a sound, but Sherlock could see the pain written into every groove in the man's face. 

Sherlock felt around until he was confident that no other tendons or ligaments had gotten trapped in the space between the joint and humeral head. "I'm going to do an external rotation. Try to relax." 

Sherlock gripped Sebastian's arm, bent the elbow, and started to slowly rotate it. Muscles began spasming in the blond's arm almost immediately. Sebastian was certainly in pain, but was bearing it well. The sharp hiss of his breath through his teeth and a grunt every now and again were the only sounds he made. Sherlock kept turning, gradually lifting Sebastian's arm up higher, and it finally popped softly back into place.

It came with a shout and a gasp, but afterward, Sebastian looked relieved. His head tipped back and rolled tentatively before he tried the same with his shoulder. It moved well enough, though his face contorted in agony. "This is gonna be stiff as hell for a few days." More than that, Sherlock knew. He probably wouldn't be able to move it at all. It was going to swell and he'd be left with a massive bruise. 

However, if Sherlock's point had gotten through, he would have lots of time to rest and let it heal.  
Sebastian, finally, lifted his gaze to Sherlock's. Startlingly blue eyes stared at him with an unreadable expression, almost as though Sebastian were remapping his face, like he needed to reassess Sherlock after what he'd just done. 

Sherlock gave him a flicker of a smile. He cracked an instant ice pack, wrapped it in a towel, and pressed it to the reddened muscles that were already starting to swell up, then grabbed Sebastian's hand to have him hold the pack in place. "Lucky for you that Jim needs a few days to get the next job ready. Just don't be foolish and try to move it too soon, or you'll be down one arm for the job."

Sebastian was still staring. Sherlock stared back, trying to read what was going on in the blond's head. 

"...you didn't think I was capable of bringing you down?"

The muscles in the man's jaw worked, not quite sure himself how to explain. "Didn't think you'd be...like that," he admitted. It wasn't just what Sherlock had done to his shoulder, it wasn't just that Sherlock had overpowered him, it wasn't just that Sherlock wanted to be in control... It was all of those things together, that Sherlock had wanted control and had taken it, by force, with Jim's blessing. Sebastian breathed in and out again before he looked imploringly back to Sherlock. "You in on the job, then?" 

He and Jim had been working online for days, but it seemed Jim hadn't preemptively assured him Sherlock's participation. 

"To be fair, I didn't think you'd be _like that_ either," Sherlock countered, ignoring Sebastian’s attempt to redirect the conversation. His expression flickered for a moment as memories of what they'd just done resurfaced in his mind, including the image of Sebastian spread open and desperate. "...and yes, the plan at this point is for me to join you. I haven't been given the details yet."

Sherlock's gaze fell to the open patch of flooring between them. Sebastian had to know that Jim was unhappy; the spirit had hardly been subtle about his displeasure and boredom, and with the way he and Sebastian worked through Jim's computer, Jim could very well have been complaining directly. What Sherlock didn't know was whether Sebastian was aware of what would happen if Jim wasn't mollified. 

"You look like you're on your way to a funeral," Sebastian said, grabbing for his trousers. 

Sebastian would have to have been an idiot if, after Jim had killed himself once and tried to kill Sherlock, he didn't think the spirit capable of doing it again. And Jim...Jim himself wasn't exactly thinking in those terms. He recognized that if he became too despondent, he was bound to lash out and not care as to the consequences, but it didn't sound like he was openly trying to hold it over Sherlock's head. It begged the question of whether Jim's manipulations were wholly intentional or not. He seemed to be that way by his very nature. 

"I might very well be." Sherlock watched Sebastian dress without a hint of self-consciousness for his own bare skin. He'd never found nudity much cause for embarrassment; the human body was what it was. People would judge regardless of appearances. Far better to worry about ill intentions than anything else. "Jim didn't enjoy the case. It possibly even made him feel worse than he has been."

Sebastian paused, standing, and frowned. The gravity wasn't lost on him. "Least he enjoyed the show," he said finally, with a half hearted snort. 

Jim hadn't left, precisely, but it was more difficult to feel him than it had been minutes ago. What he was doing during these times was a mystery, whether he was floating listlessly or whether his concentration had moved to another space, or into himself and his own mind palace. It was impossible to say, other than for the moment he'd left Sherlock and Sebastian as alone as they were ever going to get.

"He did, but he wasn't the only one." Sherlock stood and watched Sebastian try to fiddle with the fastenings of his trousers one-handed. "He might have given some encouragement at the beginning, but it was my decision." He decided not to mention that Jim had practically gift-wrapped Sebastian, given his blessing and the directions needed to manipulate the man into giving himself over. The gunman was a means of consolation after the strain of their situation.

"Right. Well. Looks like I'll be staying in tonight." There was a smile on Sebastian's lips, an almost secret one, although what they'd done was no secret at all. "And I feel like a movie. Don't think I can sleep." The smile widened and as he moved past Sherlock, he bent to pick up his lighter and a cigarette he'd carelessly left on the nightstand. He tossed one last look at Sherlock over his shoulder, one that said Sherlock's presence wouldn't be unwelcome, before his boots descended the stairs. 

Sherlock spared a glance around the room. Aside from the new belongings and the slightly damp spot on the floorboards, nothing had physically changed. The structure of the room was still the same, all the angles and planes that he remembered. Still, Sherlock felt like he'd just tainted the older memories of the place now. It was no longer John's old room, where he'd used to come watch his flatmate sleep, or touch his belongings when John was away. It was no longer even the empty, echoing space that had represented the void in his life like a spacious tombstone.

It was now Sebastian's room. Sebastian's room. The room full of weapons and the slight smell of musk and cigarettes and gun oil. The space in which Sherlock had just fucked someone. If one was technical about it and had very rigid definitions of what acts "counted", by some measures it was now the location where he'd lost his virginity, at least in the physical realm.

Sherlock steadied himself against the wall, took a few deep gulps of air, and started making his way down the stairs to his room. If he was expected to be social and bond with Sebastian, he didn't want to be cold while doing so.

Once he was dressed he found Sebastian had taken over the couch. Spread out over it as usual, he had one arm behind his head and the other, the one positioned a little more tenderly, holding the lit cigarette up to his mouth. It glowed bright orange before his eyes cast up to find Sherlock and then back to the TV. Some alien horror movie. Sebastian looked like he was perfectly relaxed aside from the ice pack resting on his shoulder, but for once there wasn't any accompanying smirk or hard stare to his acknowledgement of Sherlock's presence. 

Sherlock could only hope this would last. 

He ignored the smoke and the way it sent cravings lancing through him. He grabbed a couple patches from the box he left on the mantle, slapping them on before he settled down into a slouch in his armchair. If he was annoyed by the way Sebastian had monopolized all the space on the couch, he wasn't going to show it. He sure as hell wasn't going to draw attention by forcing the man to move, either.

Sherlock tried to pay attention, but he quickly got bored. The movie was trite and easily predictable, lacking any real innovative ideas or charm. Worst still, it committed the sin so prevalent in science fiction: a complete lack of understanding of basic scientific principles and facts. Sherlock found himself muttering criticisms every time a law was violated or stretched to improbability.

His little diatribe was lost on Sebastian, however, as the next time Sherlock looked over at him, he was fast asleep, snoring lightly exactly the way he'd been sitting. At least the butt of the cigarette lay in embers inside his empty coffee mug. He hadn't even made it halfway through the film. Sherlock was nearly rolling his eyes when he felt Jim's presence come back to him like oil slipping into his veins. It was sudden, one moment he was alone and the next he was not. But Jim seemed content to remain quiet. All Sherlock felt of him was the hairs at the back of his neck brushed lightly on an unheard breeze. It felt like Jim was edging in and nuzzling up close, needing Sherlock's presence in some inexplicable way.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at Sebastian. Sleeping like that was bound to give the man a stiff neck as well as a stiff shoulder, but Sherlock wasn't about to wake him and order him to move. He turned off the telly instead and padded off towards his room. He could feel Jim _draped_ over him, coating his skin and twining around his body before sinking in.

Sherlock felt less upset than earlier, slightly less trapped, but nothing was solved yet. He wouldn't start to be back on solid ground until he gave their test-run job a try and saw how it panned out, for himself and for Jim. For now, they were back to a tense sort of truce, even if it was one that held pleasures.

_"Is this your version of an apology for earlier? Or was Sebastian my consolation prize?"_

_"Hasn't anyone ever told you not to look a gift horse in the mouth?"_ Jim chided. _"My present to you, yes, but to be a part of us, not for consolation. Unless you must think of it that way. Still, I know you wanted it."_ Jim quieted as Sherlock shut the door and began to get ready for bed, until Sherlock was lying flat on his back with Jim's presence a heavy weight under his skin. Jim sent strange sensations through his body when the spirit moved, and Jim seemed to be studying the way it affected him. Relentless curiosity, the way he whittled at people just to see what it would do, as natural as breathing. 

It wasn't a surprise, then, that he kept testing Sherlock's limits. Not even out of cruelty, but because it was a hunger and an impulse he couldn't resist. Jim had much in common with young children at times, pulling the wings off dragonflies and turtles out of their shells and not understanding the full repercussions that might follow afterwards. 

_"I did,"_ Sherlock admitted. He pulled the covers over himself and settled down, and thought once again how strange it was to feel someone there but not be able to touch or curl around them. _"And it was appreciated."_ Appreciated, but not all he wanted. Jim couldn't have missed the hurt nestled in Sherlock like a stone. Aside from his concern for his own skin, he was disappointed in his failure, and insecure in the fact that he wasn't proving to be enough to keep Jim in a happier state of mind.

He felt Jim's prodding stop. The room spanned out in their silence, Sherlock's light breath too small in the cavernous wake of it. Jim had not missed his treacherous little wish. 

Instead of the oily weight of smugness Sherlock was so accustomed to, he felt a small warmth in the center of his chest, emitted by Jim, strong enough to become just shy of an ache. _"I would have us be one if I could,"_ Jim said softly, _"To live inside your mind and mine, together with whatever we created, whatever we wanted, to make the world anything we could imagine, beautiful or terrible, without any of this, this..."_ Dull. Wretched. Life. _"I think that could be enough for me. But knowing a world outside of that exists, I could never let it be."_ The pressure stopped when it neared too close to pain. _"It isn't that you aren't enough."_

Sherlock closed his eyes. In the dark, lying like this, if he didn't pay attention to some of the details, how the covers weren't wrapped around another body, how the touch didn't stop at the boundary of his skin, he could almost pretend Jim was there, pushing with the heel of his palm against Sherlock's chest. 

He wondered where Jim's palm even was—if his brother knew which government bureau had swept up the remains into storage, or an unmarked grave somewhere. The thought cut into him, and so he dismissed it to contemplate another time. 

_"Take me down. I've had enough of being awake for today."_

He felt Jim's smile as vividly as though it were on his own face before his eyes drooped with heaviness and then he felt nothing at all.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So close to the end guys, only one or two chapters left! Thanks for reading! (And I'll try to catch up on replying to the comments asap, we read every one. Thank you so much!)

Serlock could hear the shore. 

He heard the sound of waves lapping upon land, and feel the hard grit of densely packed sand under his back. When he opened his eyes, there was Jim, sitting with his knees up in old jeans and a loose tshirt, smiling down at him. The sun was warm, and so was the sand, tempered only with just enough of a light breeze to make Sherlock feel comfortable. Just as comfortable as it seemed Jim was becoming with his childhood summer home. But they were alone here now, and this place was only a backdrop. 

Jim scooted up close, headless of the sand on his palms and all over his side as he laid down next to Sherlock, head propped up on one hand and the other....reaching out to press over Sherlock’s chest. Right in the middle. The corner of his mouth lifted. "Would this be enough for you?"

Sherlock gave Jim a slight smile in return. Gull cries echoed faintly in the distance. "I'd have trouble saying for certain. The leisurely country life has its charms, for sure, particularly when paired with the right companions. I haven't tried it, though."

Sherlock's toes dug into the sand and he turned his head. Beyond the outline of Jim's body, he could see where the beach trailed up into manicured green plots and little pathways and the trees that surrounded the country house he remembered so well. "I always had the intention of eventually retiring someplace a bit like this. Some sort of partially secluded farmhouse where I could continue to experiment and do whatever I wanted without disturbing the locals. Keep bees or chickens or something quaint. I'm not certain if it'd eventually drive me mad or not. I didn't think I was going to live to retire at quite a few points in my life."

Jim's smile was wide and bemused, listening to Sherlock's idle daydreams. He followed where Sherlock's eyes led, seeming to enjoy the fantasy of it himself for a time. "It wouldn't all be sunshine and meadows, you know," and that was where a hint of a smirk came to his lips, "Our minds are not always so...governable as that. You may think you're in control of your own mind palace, and for the most part you are. But spend enough time here and the subconscious will come out to play. The part of our minds that control every detached 'what if', every unconscious imagining that shows up in our nightmares, every intrusive path of logic we follow through to conclusion, no matter where it leads, that is as much a part of this place as your retirement home. Think of it. _Anything_ we could imagine. The greatest mysteries of all time, played out right here. Nothing would ever fall short because nothing would ever be created by anything less than our own minds. Not a dull moment again." Jim fingered a curl of Sherlock's hair, smiling. 

Sherlock considered. It was considerably more difficult to think with Jim's fingertips just barely stroking enough for him to feel it. "Hmm. So eventual madness for certain. I don't think I'd weather the darker parts of my subconscious all that well once they surfaced and refused to go away." That was the thing about nightmares: one could always wake up and escape them unharmed. With normal dreams, at least. If any of the late night terrors that had plagued Sherlock throughout his life proved to be as real as Jim's actions were, with repercussions carrying over to the waking world, he'd not survive. "And that's besides the danger that I'd simply get lost and waste away."

Jim closed his eyes. "I wish you would get lost with me." 

It was interesting how much control Jim demanded over the real world when he had to live in it, especially when all he seemed to want to do was throw it away for something better. He was, perhaps, too competitive to let it go and simply hide away in his mind. He had to give up the real world completely in order for him to let it be. Control freak. 

Somewhere up at the cabin a wind chime tinkled on the breeze. Jim took a deep breath and let his fingers rest against the back of Sherlock's scalp. Jim wanted to feel him there, as solidly as was possible. 

"I'm not done with the world outside, yet. I don't know everything I want to do, but I'm not done." Sherlock's gaze turned and rested on Jim, who was still shuttered tight, eyes closed and concentrating on touch. There was an unspoken fragility there that broke through the last of Sherlock's residual anger. Jim looked ghostly against the ocean sun - a delicate Irish spectre that was going to burn away into mist if they lingered too long.

Sherlock sat up and took hold of Jim's other hand, tugging gently until Jim opened his eyes again. The edges of Sherlock's mouth curled upwards ever so slightly as he got to his feet and pulled Jim with him, turning them back towards the summer house. 

Patience did not come easy to Jim, but he had managed it when he needed to. More than, when his ambitions had been set on something. Sherlock had seen so while he was alive. His ambitions must still have been set on Sherlock now, for he followed with only a sigh of the warm air and lazy, trudging feet. 

The house was empty when they reached it, as both knew it would be. It was theirs now, no longer would the absence of Sherlock's family haunt him here. Light spilled in through the windows as easily as it did outside. There were so many. Jim let Sherlock lead, for once relaxed and present in the moment. Maybe the sun had gotten to him. Maybe he was enjoying this while it lasted.

Sherlock took time to survey the blank interior. His brow furrowed while he searched through his memories, seizing upon different shapes and remembered textures. He looked away, and when he looked back a few pieces of furniture had filled some of the gaps. None of them matched; they were piecemeal copies of different memories roughly combined with a bit of raw creativity and dropped into the space.

Still, they were functional. Sherlock tentatively settled onto a spot on the new sofa. It didn't collapse or disappear, but neither did it feel like one might expect from its appearance.

Jim, instead of finding or making one of his own, drifted to Sherlock. When he sat, he barely left any space between them at all. His hands found their way into Sherlock's hair, one on either side of his head and Jim closed his eyes, letting them rest. Everything Sherlock was getting into out in the real world hovered around them, like a palpable thing just beyond the walls of this room. It was waiting to be acknowledged, but it seemed Jim didn't want to. He would want to tomorrow, when they were back in the waking world, but he didn't want to now. It might have been for Sherlock's sake, and it might have been for his own--for it could only serve to sour Sherlock's mood. So instead, for once, Jim said nothing. 

Sherlock let himself be held and pet for a minute or two. Rather than relaxing into the touch, his gaze on Jim's face was wary. Jim's hunger for physical contact was very different from the brooding, heavy atmosphere he'd been generating earlier that day. Sherlock wasn't quite sure how to interpret the change, or whether this was a signal that Jim was feeling as fragile as he was himself. Looking out over an abyss of self-destruction wasn't conducive to generating high spirits and feelings of security, after all.

Eventually, Sherlock tugged Jim closer and pulled him into his lap. "...what is it? You've been looking at me like I'm going to disappear."

Something pulled at Jim's lip, almost a smile. "You've agreed to join me on a test run. Finally. But I know better than to put all my faith in it. Hope is not a thing I carry in spades." Funny, how Jim should begin to distrust everything as soon as it was taking a very tentative turn his way. "I think you'll enjoy it, but then again you thought that I would enjoy chasing dullheaded thugs all around town. Not," he interrupted before Sherlock could speak, "that that was necessarily your fault. I just loathe waiting in uncertainty." 

Sherlock tilted his head in consideration. "Few things in life are ever certain. There's a matter of probability, but that's as much about hedging your bets as stacking the deck in your favor." He watched Jim in silence for a few heartbeats, his expression oddly guarded. "...I can't make any promises, other than that I am trying, and I will approach the test run with an open mind. You've made it very clear what it would mean to you."

Jim did smile then, a reproachful one aimed at himself. "That I should need to be told how little is certain.... Look what you've done to me." He paused. "Oh yes, I know, it wasn't you. It was all me." Jim's hands dropped from Sherlock's hair and Jim himself pulled back and dropped into the nearest armchair, feet kicked out in front of him. Until he decided that was too great a distance between them and scooted closer, scraping against the hardwood floor. "You'll just have to forgive me for being a little....touchy." His fingers wiggled and danced, illustrating the point, until they settled on Sherlock's forearm. 

Grey eyes followed the digits curling around Sherlock's limb. With Jim's hand draped as it was, the size difference between them was all the more apparent. The smaller man's fingers curled and snagged on Sherlock's sleeve, but this wasn't Jim's usual almost-predatory hunger and obsession. Sherlock blinked and wondered how it was that the two of them were so alike and yet so different; he couldn't begin to say what had cause this shift in mood in the criminal, and what it meant. "...I don't mind when I don't feel forced. What happened earlier wasn't rejection, it was frustration. I don't like feeling controlled or backed into a corner and given no options. You tend to... _ask_ in the wrong ways."

Jim's head rolled to look at him. For a moment their eyes held. Jim's expression was unreadable and his mind unfathomable. Sherlock may have laid his cards down just then, but he at least had the knowledge that likewise, here, his mind was as closed to Jim as Jim always was to him. 

"How would you like me to ask?" The silence broke, but Jim didn't move. The scene around them seemed strange for this kind of conversation now, gulls calling outside, chimes sounding softly from the patio, the warm light streaming in all around them. 

Sherlock wouldn't have wanted to admit it, but even now that he knew Jim a bit better, something about his eyes was always slightly unnerving, regardless of what expression they were set in. Jim's mannerisms were currently mild, even soft, but that meant nothing. 

"I'll put it another way: you're used to dominating, forcing, and manipulating to get your way, out of habit, because that's what's been most effective and fulfilling with other people. Those same tactics won't work on me, not for the end results you want." Sherlock's eyes trailed over Jim for insights as to what he was thinking, but the man was as still and closed as a mirrored box, revealing nothing of what was going on inside. "I've had a lifetime to learn to hate people who try to force, dominate, and manipulate me towards their own ends and pleasures. When you ask for things, there has to be more leeway for me to choose. Less of a tone of threat, and more of a sense that I'm being treated as an equal."

"I know," Sherlock raised his hand and stopped Jim before he could reply. "I know that you've said that we're equal, that we're the same. You've said it, but you've not always acted in accordance. If our positions were switched and I'd behaved the same, I think you would have attempted to murder me by now, and damn the consequences."

"I'm giving you a choice this time," Jim's face contorted into a scowl. "As much as I can. You fear I'll go mad and end us both. I don't want that to happen, but it is a valid fear." Jim's mouth soured, like he was about to say something he found distasteful. "I didn't want this. I didn't want to be here. All I have is what I can take. I can't...leave it to chance." His head dropped to rest against his own arm, considering Sherlock. He seemed to be having some degree of internal battle. The way he stared, how slowly he spoke, Jim was resting on a scale that could go either way, but he heard Sherlock. "I'll try."

"Trying is all I can ask for." Sherlock watched carefully, measuring his words and hesitantly stepping out onto thin conversational ground. Jim was trying to meet him halfway and go outside of his well-shielded comfort zone. The least he could do was the same. "But that's what I'm trying to tell you. I remember very well how disappointed you were to wake up like this, still here. And how disappointed you were with me. I'm also aware that, trapped as I feel, you're trapped in similar ways via your dependency on me. You're just as put off as I am by limitations and another person having enough control to deny you what you want or need."

Sherlock hesitated, then reached out and covered Jim's hand with his own where it still rested on his arm. "You'll have better luck at getting more if you don't try to forcibly take, if you leave a few issues up to chance, if only in regards to me."

Jim's head didn't move from his arm, but he looked up at Sherlock with a note of skepticism in his eyes. But that wasn't all that was there. Sherlock saw his jaw work, chewing his lip in a nervous tick. Jim would find it incredibly hard to leave something he was set on to chance. Pushing aside the want and pulling on a veil of neutrality for someone else's sake was so far from his nature that Sherlock could almost see how much it pained him.

But again, he spoke quietly. "Alright." 

Sherlock felt Jim's pulse steady, felt his fingers flex and grip back. Jim looked at their hands with a blank enough expression to suggest that he was unused to _holding hands_ with Sherlock. Or the idea of it, anyway. Funny, how prickly he was in some areas. He liked to touch. He liked to be touched. But contact that had traditionally constructed meanings around it seemed unnatural to him outside of his false personas. 

Sherlock tried to stifle the smile Jim's discomfort caused, then aborted the effort; covering up reactions was just a different sort of lie, and Sherlock was trying to stop all the barriers and pretenses between them that was causing them to be on the edge of destroying one another. He gave Jim's hand one last brief squeeze, then let go. "...so, you didn't seem to like that. What _would_ you like?" 

Dark eyes locked on Sherlock's face, and he licked his lips. Sherlock was aware that he was standing on a ledge. After asking Jim to trust him enough to try being vulnerable and asking, rather than taking, it wouldn't encourage him to continue to trust if Sherlock immediately turned down his requests.

He saw only one side of Jim's mouth curve, the rest hidden by his sleeve. Jim let the moment last, eyes dropping to Sherlock's chair and sliding back up before he replied. "I'd like to sit on your lap again." The smile crinkled the corners of his eyes, but he didn't move. He seemed to be asking now, proving he understood the point of Sherlock's complaint, whereas before, he would have just got up and planted himself there whether Sherlock was expecting it or not. And the odds leaned toward not. 

Sherlock's features slackened a bit in surprise, but he didn't speak a word of refusal. He nodded once, more of an acknowledgement that he'd heard the request than anything else. "That's more than fine with me." The fingers of one hand crooked, an invitation for Jim to come closer and place himself where he wanted.

Jim's smile spread into a smirk as he lifted himself from his own chair and with one step brought first one leg up over Sherlock's hips and then the other, resting them between his thighs and the arms of the seat. They'd been close before, leaning across the space between them, but now Jim practically flattened himself up against Sherlock, hands sliding over his shoulders and down his chest before Jim drew in. Sherlock felt the tickle of the man’s breath and the near palpable focus of his eyes, lingering on Sherlock's face no matter which way his body moved, until Jim was nestled up against him, merely inches apart. 

"I like this better," Jim said with a twitch of one slim brow. 

Sherlock was speechless for a moment, pupils blown wide and fixed on the man who'd just slithered over the boundaries of his chair. The position wasn't unfamiliar, and only a very subtle piece of their interaction had changed, but that change was making all the difference. Instead of worrying about which way Jim was going to choose to violate his autonomy and boundaries, Sherlock was trying to predict what Jim might choose to request next... and hoping. 

"So do I," Sherlock finally breathed, once he realized he'd been staring at Jim in silence. Jim's smirk only widened. "Do I get to touch you, or am I supposed to keep my hands to myself?"

Jim's teeth made an appearance. "I would like to touch you, if you wouldn't mind," he said softly, almost merrily. Somehow this was a conversation now, negotiating the terms of the encounter they were about to delve into. It was odd, hearing Jim speak like that, but it was what Sherlock had asked for. Even if it didn't seem to sit right within reality because this was Jim, he at least sounded like was making the effort. His fingers walked up Sherlock's sternum to finger at the top buttons of his shirt, slipping one free and then another, so slowly, before he bent to press his lips to Sherlock's collarbone. 

Sherlock's gaze turned half-lidded, but he didn't take his eyes off of Jim. Or at least, he tried. When Jim moved closer Sherlock arched to give him easier access - tacit, wordless permission. Jim's attention was having a marked effect that he couldn't have failed to notice, sitting as he was. Sherlock shifted, suddenly uncomfortable now that pieces of his anatomy were trapped at awkward angles. Jim still hadn't answered his question, either. Sherlock's hands gripped the chair's arms on either side until his knuckles turned white.

"As much as I enjoyed watching you with Sebastian, I did miss having you to myself," Jim whispered as he parted the buttons down Sherlock's chest. He pulled up the rest of the shirt from Sherlock's trousers to get the last, and Sherlock saw his smile curl when he glanced down. Jim parted the material just as slowly as he'd removed the buttons, draping it carefully to either side of Sherlock's torso. His breath teased against Sherlock's collar, and he knew exactly what he was doing because he was deliberately didn’t touch yet. Until he bent down, and shimmied his hips up just a bit, presumably to make sure he was secure, but it rubbed over Sherlock's lap in all the right ways. Finally his mouth pressed to Sherlock's shoulder and his hands felt to the soft skin of Sherlock's stomach. Jim explored like Sherlock might have changed since he'd been with Sebastian, like he could find the difference if he only looked. 

"Would you _like_ to touch me as well?" The question floated up soft and unexpected. 

Jim's explorations produced a choked sound from Sherlock; the arms of the chair actually _creaked_. When Jim looked up a flush spread across Sherlock's pale skin and his lips parted. Jim had barely started to touch him and yet he already looked partially debauched. Truly, he'd come a long way from the frightened and reluctant man he'd been only a handful of weeks ago. "Yes. Yes, I do. It's... very difficult not to, when you're doing this."

Sherlock felt a huff of air, Jim's laugh, against his sternum before a pair of thumbs dipped between the jut of his hip bone and the waist of his trousers. A very sensitive spot. Jim licked his lips when Sherlock shivered and did it again before drawing up. Face to face, Sherlock could see just how much Jim was enjoying this. And he was, surprisingly. To be fair, they'd barely tested the waters of their new agreement, but it hadn't put Jim off yet. Not like holding hands had. 

Jim kissed Sherlock, starting slowly, almost chastely but for the darting of his tongue, before he pulled back. "Then you may."

Sherlock was practiced at being subtle with many things, when he put his mind to it, but this wasn't one of them. The moment Jim gave permission, Sherlock let go of the chair. He pulled Jim closer, hips canting slightly, and even that quickly proved insufficient. He fumbled to catch up with his own partial state of undress, tugging at Jim's shirt and seeking out warm skin underneath. Sherlock could both feel and hear Jim's laughter in response. "I'm that amusing, am I?"

"I remember not so long ago how you felt about this sort of thing. And now.... Twice in one night. With two different people. Kinky, Sherlock." He felt the curve of Jim's lips against the corner of his mouth. One of Jim's inky eyes was watching him in amusement. Before Sherlock could hesitate, however, Jim's thighs parted, pressing his weight down and against Sherlock's crotch. Even Jim gasped at that. One of his hands came up to grip Sherlock's hair like he thought he could hold on that way.

Whatever Sherlock had wanted to say in reply, Jim had driven the words out of his head. The sting was still there, but Sherlock's gaze was drawn to the curve of lips parted in a gasp, showing just a hint of teeth. He could feel the tension in his scalp where Jim had latched onto his hair and the slight scratch of his nails. Jim was untouchable while he was awake, but here was where they were on nearly equal footing. Here was where Jim could be touched, physically and otherwise, and where he was vulnerable by virtue of permitting such a thing. 

Sherlock clung to the body atop him. It didn't matter how reticent and disgusted he'd initially felt about this. What did matter was that he no longer felt the same, partially through experience and partially through the passage of time, processing, and becoming more secure with the revelations of his own identity and desires. He didn't look at Jim anymore and fear being taken against his will, or consider the possibilities with a sense of shame and skin-crawling aversion. Sherlock had grown to want touch.

Dark eyes closed and Jim's temple bent to his while Jim worked at the fastening of his own jeans. He was quick about it, getting them open and lifting himself in a way that was too fast to be entirely awkward to shove them down his legs. He'd been barefoot on the beach, a strange thing to see, but not unwelcome. It saved time here. The shirt went over his head next, and then Jim was sitting, in all his naked glory, in Sherlock's lap again. He wore only a smile, satisfied in the way Sherlock's eyes took in his skin, warm and bright for the first time in the midday sunlight. This....shouldn't have been Jim, Jim did not live in sunlight like that, but somehow it still was. 

Perhaps it made a difference that it was _their_ sunlight, in the same way that everything else here was their own. Sherlock took a shuddering breath and let his gaze flow over Jim's body like a caress, noting every line and curve, the way his pale skin almost glowed in stark contrast to the inky blackness of his hair. Light caught on Jim's eyes and, for once, their true color showed: dark, intense brown, like earth that had never before been touched by the sun suddenly pulled from hidden depths. Sherlock’s expression must have shown something of what he was feeling because Jim's smile grew a little wider, a little more crooked. 

He looked like he wanted to say something, preen under the attention, maybe, but instead he leaned in close and just followed the movement of Sherlock's eyes with his own, seeing if he could get Sherlock to follow him. Like a snake. It worked until Sherlock realized what he was doing, but Jim chuckled and kissed him before he could stop. And then Jim's hands were at Sherlock's trousers, unbuttoning while his hips rocked just below, encouraging the growing hardness there. 

"I'd like a taste of you now," Jim whispered, Sebastian flashing through their minds for the briefest moment. 

Sherlock made a strained noise deep in his throat, flushed, and nodded. The image that had passed between them was more than fine with him. 

His thoughts didn't stop there, however. Jim's fingers worked quickly, taking care of the cloth barriers between them, but when Jim stopped at the bare minimum he needed to get what he wanted, Sherlock shook his head. Jim stood briefly while Sherlock hooked his thumbs into his waistband and shimmied awkwardly out of his trousers and pants, kicking them off with his shoes as quickly as he could. Memories of Sebastian bent over in front of him had merged with other memories and sparked a desire Sherlock hadn't expected to feel again. Or ever.

At Jim's raised eyebrow, Sherlock felt his mouth go dry. He licked his lips and finally managed to force the words out. "...I want to try again."

The words hung in the air until they settled into Jim almost visibly. "Come then." He took Sherlock's wrist and led him back through the house, not to his former room, not to his parents' room, not to his brother's, but to one that might have been a guest room. It was difficult to remember. Jim had changed something about the house because the room he led Sherlock to shouldn't have been the master bedroom and yet it was, light and pristine with windows on either side as wide and as tall as the rest of the interior. They could see the ocean from there, the very beach Sherlock had woken upon. But Jim turned him away from the glass and drew him toward the bed instead. 

The points where Jim's hands touched him felt hot. Sherlock let himself be guided to a sitting position on the bed. He actually swayed a bit at that small loss of pressure as Jim let him go, his body trying to reclose the gap between them. Sherlock was reminded, of all the ridiculous images that could have come to mind, of magnets - one hungry, grasping object being put in close contact with an inert, indifferent one until the hunger spread through charges and the two clung together. 

But then Jim leaned in again, he tipped his head up and they kissed. Sherlock's body reacted to him all on its own now. Jim barely had to do more than give him a look, lean a certain way, suggestive in body or mind. Even out in the waking world he could send a touch skittering down Sherlock's spine and get an instant reaction. Jim backed him up on the bed until he found the pillows, until he was all but pressed between Jim and the headboard. Jim seemed to like that. He drew Sherlock's arms up, splaying them out like he intended to tie them there before he nipped Sherlock's neck and let them fall again. His hands wandered down Sherlock's hips. His knee spread Sherlock's thighs. Jim explored like that until Sherlock's breaths filled the space between them, then bent to the night stand and found a bottle he'd no doubt put there himself. 

Sherlock was already breathing a bit too shallow. He'd asked for this, he wanted this, but he was still nervous. Even knowing what to expect this time, how it would feel and that the burning sensation would pass. Part of him feared that he'd lose heart halfway through again.

He grabbed onto Jim as the man turned back, before he'd even had a chance to start using the bottle in his hand. The way his arms encircled Jim and the short puffs of breath against his neck communicated everything that needed saying without a single word passing between them. After a few moments Sherlock finally let go and shifted his legs a little wider.

Jim bent over him, held up by one arm, but he didn't reach to open the cap yet. His face had gentled, a look on him so rare. Sherlock had seen that expression on him only a scant few times at all. His thumb stroked Sherlock's cheekbone and swept through his hair, face unchanging before he went back to the bottle. 

Jim understood. He knew how Sherlock felt, and what he was asking. 

The slick fluid warmed between Jim's fingers as he coated them and rubbed it into Sherlock's skin. It was almost a massage at first, Jim's hand starting between his thighs, running under the base of his cock, down his perineum and back and forth, making Sherlock squirm with a hint of what was to come, and ending where he intended. Then more fluid, and the process repeated.

If Jim was aiming to drive Sherlock a bit mad, he was succeeding. Pressure along his perineum was teasing - almost enough to stimulate his prostate, but not quite. The result was a slowly building desperation, with Sherlock's focus narrowing down to a very limited portion of his anatomy. His skin became sensitized to the touch. When Jim's fingers started circling, giving a limited pressure that was never quite enough to penetrate, a visible shiver ran through Sherlock and he reached down to grab onto Jim's shoulders. His voice was quiet enough that when he finally spoke in a whisper, Jim almost missed it. 

"... _please_."

He saw Jim's lashes flutter closed before he felt the fingers circle again, feeling before breaching him. In taking away one of his senses, Jim focused only on the touch of his hand on Sherlock's body, _in_ Sherlock's body. He moved so slowly, but Sherlock felt every inch give way until Jim's finger found what he wanted, what he'd been teasing at before. When Sherlock's spine arched and his hips shifted, Jim smiled, still not opening his eyes until he pressed a second finger in, joining it with the first and sliding up to that sweet spot again. When Sherlock arched the second time, brown eyes opened to see his face. 

Sherlock was laid open, in every sense of the word. Unlike the previous time they'd tried this, there wasn't any underlying hesitance, nothing covered up by bravado or aggression. Nothing that was drawn up from old memories and used as a mask. Sherlock stared back at Jim with half-lidded eyes, just the barest ring of grey still visible around his pupils, and there was only want. Sherlock was still adjusting to the slide of the digits inside him, but his hips rocked up against Jim's hand every time it moved. 

Jim coveted the expression. It was all for him now, the way Sherlock looked at him. And Sherlock saw how much he wanted that, how much he'd craved it for as long as they'd known one another. 

Jim was patient. They had time, here. This was their dance, this was Sherlock wanting him, and Sherlock knew he drew it out because he wanted that, too. He wanted to hold onto that look on Sherlock's face. But soon enough a third finger had slipped between them and Sherlock's hips were getting more insistent. Jim knew he was ready, but he pulled out almost reluctantly. Slowly, methodically, he leaned back to coat himself as Sherlock watched, legs spread, waiting, and then drew himself over Sherlock's body. 

Jim fitted between his thighs easily, rolling his erection against Sherlock's in a burst of stimulation that remained unsatisfactory, just not enough. He hovered over Sherlock's mouth, wanting to kiss but refraining until he drew up one of Sherlock's thighs and lowered himself, lining up, and sliding slowly inside.

Sherlock's cock twitched against his stomach and his lower lip trembled. Preparation made this easier, but this was about more than simple physics and anatomy. Propped against the headboard like he was, Sherlock could partially see himself being penetrated. His body clenched around Jim, who'd just leaned forward those last few millimeters and pressed their lips together. Sherlock's arms slid around Jim, holding onto him like he was the only thing keeping him centered. 

He could hear Jim whine, a sound caught inside him while their mouths where fitted together. He could _feel_ it just as easily as he felt Jim inside him, pushing up and up until their hips fitted together. He felt every inch of it. It felt like Jim could go no farther, like there was only that much of him to give, until Jim pulled Sherlock down several inches and rocked forward. 

It burned, but perhaps not as much as the first time, and the angle Jim moved him into helped. It didn't, however, help Jim's composure. His mouth had dropped open, and Sherlock could feel him tremble as he began to move his hips. 

Sherlock gasped as Jim began to set a slow rhythm. The angle would have seemed awkward to contemplate, with his legs drawn up higher and causing his spine to curve, but everything seemed easier. There was less resistance, but more than that, he could feel Jim thrusting deeper than he previously would have thought possible. The combination of that and the way Jim was looking at him made Sherlock feel pinned and utterly exposed. He wanted to burn that expression into his memory. 

Jim's fingers dug so hard into his hip it hurt, but Jim didn't seem to be aware he was doing it. His hair had gone into disarray between the wind of the beach and Sherlock's own hands. A drop of sweat, bright in the sunlight glistened on his temple. He looked more like Richard Brook than ever and yet he was still utterly Jim Moriarty. Just...in a way that no one had seen him before. Possibly ever. No one but Sherlock. And no one had seen Sherlock this way either, although not quite in the same way. No one had _had_ Sherlock this way was more accurate. And Jim loved that. He loved that Sherlock wanted it that way. It made Jim press as deep and as close as he could, trying to devour Sherlock's mouth until he reached to stroke him in time.

Jim's fingers closed around him and Sherlock whimpered in earnest. His eyes slid shut and his legs tensed, which only pressed Jim into him even more. Sherlock could feel every inch, Jim's hand perfectly synchronized with the thrusting of his hips, and his mouth was equally demanding. Jim's tongue was suddenly there, tasting and all but fucking his mouth, and Sherlock moaned and thrust back against him. 

That this was of his own free will, of his own desire, made all of the difference. Jim had exactly what he'd wanted for so long, and Sherlock... unexpectedly found that he was enjoying it far more than he'd thought he would. 

Jim's free hand caught the headboard to steady himself. It was the only thing apart from the increasingly desperate thrust of his hips that kept him upright. And still he sank against Sherlock as much as he could. He pressed his temple to Sherlock's and fell into the rhythm and sensation. The world around them blurred, coming in and out of focus, too bright, the ceiling went missing and plumes of white clouds rolled overhead. The breeze came through even when the roof righted itself again. Jim was too lost and so was Sherlock to maintain these things, even subconsciously. 

Their surroundings fell apart, piece by piece, until there was only the two of them, the bed, and the void. Sherlock gripped Jim tight enough that his nails drew blood. Neither of them noticed. Jim was hitting the perfect angle at nearly every other thrust, his hand moving even more quickly, and Sherlock's eyes were starting to roll back into his head. Jim was driving all coherent thought out of his head and filling it with himself - his presense, his body, his touch, the panting whines right next to Sherlock's ear. 

Sherlock didn't want it to stop. 

It had to, eventually. They both knew it. But the sensation building up inside of Sherlock was exquisite, and Jim was warmth and heat and want. Sherlock drew him in and Jim could no sooner slow down than he could pull away entirely. He'd wanted Sherlock too long and too desperately. Too much lay poised ready to fall apart in their future to let a second of this go to waste. 

" _Sherlock,_ " Jim whispered. It came out in a whimper and he buried his face in Sherlock's neck. 

This was the Jim who'd watched Sherlock sneaking into the pool, who'd hoped they could know each other someday. It didn't matter on what side of reality anymore. 

"Jim-" Sherlock's voice turned into a cry, and the way his body suddenly tensed was Jim's only warning.   
Sherlock arched and wet, sticky heat spilled over Jim's fingers. White noise filled Sherlock's ears and the edges of his vision dimmed, but he could still feel Jim. Jim, who was tucked as close as he could possibly get, panting against his neck and driving into him even as his orgasm was beginning to fade and turning everything almost painfully sensitive.

Jim let him go as stars flickered, grew bright, and died all around them, but he didn't stop his thrusts, not until Sherlock opened his eyes again, brows drawn tight with sensation, overwhelmed, lips bruised red and parted, a sound close to pain wrenched from his lungs, and then Jim was coming inside him with a cry of his own. Three more snaps of his hips to ride it through and he stilled, chest heaving, trembling, unwilling to let Sherlock go as even the galaxies faded. Everything faded. The world grew dim, until it was only them, no sheets, no blankets, no bed, but comfortable and warm just the same. 

Sherlock clung to him, shivering despite the warmth. He could feel echoes of pleasure rippling through him, sparking off through his nervous system like an afterimage that lingered behind the eyes when overwhelmed with light. They were both slightly damp with sweat, and Sherlock could feel stickiness around Jim's hand where it was still trapped between them, but he didn't want to move. 

One of Sherlock's hands eventually slid up Jim's back and tangled in his hair.

It caused Jim to nuzzle into him, too tired, too relaxed to do anything more. If they had been able to make time stand still, they would have done it here. They could have been anywhere. Jim's face fell in shadow. Sherlock could barely see the rest of him. When he at last drew his head up again, his eyes were their normal black pits, like Jim carried windows into this void of theirs with him wherever he went. If anyone were to ever to get close enough, they might have been able to see this place. Jim would have sucked them in. Just like he'd done to Sherlock. 

With a smile he curled his fingers into Sherlock's hair in return, then ran them down his jaw, and landed at his sternum. Jim laid his head down against Sherlock's chest, breath finally steady. "Don't wake me up."

"I'll try not to." Sherlock's muscles were finally starting to protest, however. He lifted Jim and wriggled just enough to get into a more comfortable position, and Jim slipped out of him. He resettled with the smaller man draped atop him like a blanket. The blackness around them was utterly quiet, utterly still, the distant points of stars gradually flickering back into view. Sherlock watched their reemergence and quietly stroked fingers through Jim's hair.

He didn't know what to say. Sherlock didn't know that there was anything _to_ be said. He'd been slowly losing pieces of himself to Jim, and this was only the latest. He could only hope that he was getting pieces back, before he ended up hollow - a cavern with a very particular dragon curled tight inside him and a small pile of shards of his former self clutched tight in its claws.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more chapter to go after this. Thanks for sticking with us!

It was another week before Jim was ready with an undertaking he deemed worthy enough of Sherlock's attention, a week in which he went between periods of restless moodiness and manic, intense planning sessions with Sebastian or marathons of sex with Sherlock. Jim craved it. 

Sherlock could tell that he was worried, that he was nervous Sherlock would not take to his side of the game just as he'd not taken to Sherlock's, and that had much to do with Jim's desperate bids for Sherlock's touch. Part of Jim must have been sure that he was about to lose it. Perhaps not right away and perhaps not all at once, but if their plan failed, if Sherlock did not want to work with Jim and did not want Jim to work out of his home, then they would be forced into a standoff.

Jim's mood was infectious and had put Sherlock on edge. He'd followed through with their agreement--giving control over to Jim and letting him handle choosing and planning the job he wanted Sherlock to try, but it was difficult not to try to interfere. He stopped short of questioning Sebastian or going through Jim's laptop, and he refused to broach the subject when Jim sought him out at night. Words weren't going to be much assurance to either of them at the moment. There was nothing to be done but to wait and see.

Sherlock spent increasing amounts of time on the rooftop, aggressively practicing and physically working off pressure in a way that he couldn't with his mind right then. Training as if he could force the upcoming job to be a success through effort alone as if preparation for dangers on the job would also save him from the possible dangers that would follow.

Jim's goal in itself was simple enough. Now that "Moriarty" was back in the public light, supposedly alive, it was time to come to collect on old dues. Those who'd moved in the circles he created back then now needed to be convinced to return, and there was no better way than following up where he'd left off. 

One such person was a man named Henry Kingston, a London banker, not a rookie, but not a real player in Moriarty's prior schemes. Someone who had never shown up on Sherlock's radar as more than an acquaintance. Kingston had been part of a drop network and no more. The way Moriarty worked anonymously online had been mirrored in real life when dealing with goods and funds of varying degrees of legitimacy, and he'd kept that network as separate as was possible from his true work. Those who worked to pass money for Moriarty knew the name, but never anything more. 

Occasionally, however, something would go awry, as it did the day after Jim died. Kingston was supposed to receive a drop of 500,000 US Dollars and pass it along, but after the sudden demise of the network's employer, several of the jobs Moriarty had in motion fell into disarray. One such piece that had gone missing during that time was Kingston's package, and now it was time for Jim to come calling. 

They needed to determine if Kingston took it for himself, handed it off to someone else, either the next drop in the chain or someone outside of the organization, gave it to the police and ratted Jim out--because Jim's name had surfaced along the line somewhere, or never even had it to begin with, and that was where Sherlock came in.

Once the bare bones of the plan was revealed, Sherlock's role made perfect sense. 

Kingston wasn't going to give them the information they needed through a simple show of force or intimidation, and if he was still a viable tool, he was valuable. Too valuable to break by having Sebastian dig the information out of him using other methods, thus putting him out of commission and drawing attention to him as a former pawn in Moriarty's network, legitimate or not. Subtlety was needed, and subtlety was what Sherlock was going to deliver. 

Sherlock and Sebastian sat side by side on the couch, facing Jim's text streaming across the laptop screen and running through the stages of the plan. Kingston wasn't a true mover in the banking industry, but he had climbed the ranks enough to have gained a taste for the pretense of being one... and a subsequent addiction to high stakes betting, whether that was in stocks and bonds or by popular methods of gambling. He'd bought himself a membership to the Colony Club and was a frequent customer. It would be easy enough for Sherlock and Sebastian to gain access separately. 

"It goes without saying that we need to be careful of the security cameras, but if we're going to do this, we need to enter separately at the beginning." Sherlock turned and looked Sebastian in the eye. "In order to be convincing, your surprise should be genuine. Achieving that will be easier if you don't see me before you begin to confront Kingston. He'll be less likely to think me another agent if it's clear we've never seen one another before."

Sebastian nodded. He'd taken to working with Sherlock easily enough, even accepting suggestions from him, Sherlock's own particular brand of suggestions, without complaint. Something they surely wouldn't have been able to accomplish before the encounter at Sebastian's window. No matter how disdainful Sherlock became now, Sebastian didn't bat an eyelash, nor did he try to vie for dominance. Sherlock, for his part, softened his tone, fractionally, whenever Sebastian levelled him with a cool gaze. 

"You'll have to keep watch after I approach him. His body language will tell you when to interrupt," Sebastian added.

On screen, Jim gave the affirmative. 

Their plan was twofold. They didn't want to make a scene. They did want to intimidate Kingston, but just enough to work with what they had after they determined where the money had gone. Sebastian and Sherlock, acting as Moriarty's agents, could easily bring him back into the fold right then and there if he had remained loyal. If not...Sebastian would take care of him. Either way, word of Moriarty's tying up loose ends would get around. 

"That will be easy enough. You'll have to trust me to be able to manipulate him into going into one of the private gaming areas where we'll have more of an advantage and won't have to worry as much about being overheard. You'll have to watch for cues from me, as there will be points where it might be more advantageous for me to be alone with him, or at least have the appearance of being alone. You should be able to tail us without much trouble." 

Sherlock spared a glance at the building blueprints Jim had brought up on the screen. The open layout of the architecture was both an advantage and disadvantage; it was unlikely that they would run into privately hired security, either by Kingston or another party, but it also put Sebastian at more risk for recognition and would make their situation far more difficult should Kingston decide to risk making a scene.

Sebastian nodded again. "Only likely if he was loyal after all." There wasn't much chance Sebastian, who was meant to put pressure on Kingston from the start, would leave the vicinity should Sherlock determine he'd given Moriarty up to the authorities or had taken the money and run. If the opposite were true, however, Sebastian's continued presence might make Kingston nervous. 

They had a limited space to work with. The Colony Club consisted of a full bar, a restaurant, and roughly 20 gaming tables, but the place was popular. And patrons were under close scrutiny. They would have to make their movements between groups seamless. 

Jim continued to write out instructions for them. Their plan had two outcomes. Either they wanted Kingston to rejoin Moriarty's network, and tell others what he'd encountered that night, or he would be taken out back, as the saying went. Sherlock would have to lure him away from the crowd and the cameras and then he and Sebastian would have to incapacitate him and remove him from the premises. His body would turn up later, and Moriarty's name would follow.

They would complete the undertaking the following evening and though it wouldn’t be particularly complex in and of itself, really Jim was starting Sherlock off with a simple job, they still had to be coordinated. 

Once Sebastian and Sherlock had gone over the outcomes, all that remained was to make their preparations and get ready. Sebastian's gaze followed Sherlock as he got up from the couch, much as he'd watched him during the past few days, but Sherlock ignored the look. He could feel Jim twined around him again, and with his own unsettled nerves Sherlock only had enough energy to focus on soothing himself and the spirit. Sebastian would have to wait until after the job had been completed and things settled down.

And Jim, Jim was unusually intense, even given the desperation of the last week. Sherlock found the spirit’s hunger more nerve-wracking that comforting - it reassured him that Jim wanted this to work, but at the same time revealed the his doubts. It felt entirely too much like a frenzied goodbye.

* * *

Sherlock awoke the next morning sore, stressed, and wishing time would pass more quickly so he could simply get the job over with.

Rather than drive himself mad cooped up in the flat until it was time to move, he left to wander London. Somewhere between grabbing a late breakfast at a street side cafe and watching passersby in Regent's Park, the thought surfaced that John would be disappointed in him. For a great many things, but particularly in aiding Jim and Sebastian to continue their work. It almost startled him. 

But John wasn't there anymore, either in the sense of being in the immediate vicinity or being involved in Sherlock's life. His phone was silent, even with the doctor knowing of Sherlock's recent supposed assault. John had been giving him space. But without Sherlock's presence serving as a reminder, John Watson was growing distracted and forgetful in his new life. Sherlock no longer had his moral compass.

What he did have was Jim. Jim who remained a thick presence wherever he went now. Whether the spirit was speaking to him or not, Sherlock could feel him. He was sure it had to do with Jim's heightened emotions bleeding into his presence and making him incapable of subtlety. To Sherlock, anyway. Sebastian only felt it when Jim got out of control. Other people he passed on the street didn't seem to notice at all. It was like having a very real imaginary friend. 

Sebastian, as much as he would have loved to stretch his legs, was waiting for him back at the flat. On Jim's instructions, Sherlock picked up clothes for him. They needed to blend in the crowd.

The night couldn't be delayed forever, and finally Sherlock stood and returned to the flat with the few packages. Sebastian wasn't the only one with new purchases to help the job go more smoothly.

When Sherlock entered, he found the man pacing in the den. "We need to get ready," Sherlock stated, crossing the room to hand over Sebastian's new clothing. "We should have plenty of time, according to what we know about Kingston’s habits, but I also can't leave until you do. I'm assuming you've already arranged for transport fit for the two of us, because I don't particularly want to take a cab back at the end."

"You'll ride back with me. I'll keep us out of sight." There were a few ways Sebastian might plan to accomplish that, but it would not be their biggest obstacle. He took the package Sherlock handed him with barely a glance, his attention lingered on Sherlock instead, and went to change. 

Sebastian's scrutiny came from a number of reasons. Not only had he never seen Sherlock take part in such a farcical setup, never mind uncertain how Sherlock would handle the situation should they have to murder their target, but Sebastian had never worked with Sherlock, at all. It had been a long time since Sebastian had worked with anyone. And Jim was in Sherlock's head. They all would work as a team, but ultimately, it was Sherlock and the spirit who would call the shots. Jim would lay down the plan; Sherlock would either accept it or reject it. 

Sebastian would give his input as needed, and work with what he was given. Altogether, it made him look at Sherlock a little more like he'd looked at Sherlock the last time they'd been together. A little like he might have once looked at Jim.

And Jim didn't seem particularly worried about that either. All his attention was reserved for Sherlock as Sebastian left the room, rummaging through the shopping. 

Sherlock wasn't worried about Sebastian's performance or aptitude. He wasn't letting himself worry about the outcome of the job either, at least in terms of how he was going to feel about it. Worrying wouldn't do anything to alter what was going to happen. Making certain that he was giving the job his utmost attention most certainly _would_. Their success, and what they might have to do, hinged on how well he could read and manipulate their target - or at least it did in the event that the man hadn't already sold Jim out.

Sherlock needed to be convincing, and to be convincing he needed to slip into someone else.

He'd already picked out the exact character he was going to portray, and the appearance he'd need to supplement the mannerisms and attitude he was going to adopt. Sherlock walked back to his room to gather up what he'd need from his kit. He ignored the way the rustling in the bathroom paused as he walked by. Sebastian hadn't bothered to shut the door and Sherlock caught a flash of lean torso out of the corner of his eye as the man stood, hand at the buckle of his trousers. 

Jim's touch curled at the back of Sherlock's neck, urging him on even if he didn't need to be reminded to avoid distraction. 

They readied as quickly as they were able. Sherlock could hear Sebastian finishing first and gathering his things in the sitting room. He would clean up well in a tailored suit jacket and fitted shirt, but there was little hope of disguising the scars across his cheek and forehead. He had assured Sherlock twice that unless his photograph was out in the general public, he could pass in a crowd, even in close company. Jim had seen Sebastian work before and could at least vouch for such a bold statement. And Jim would take care of the cameras. 

It wasn't long before Sherlock heard the swish of a coat, quick footsteps descending the stairs, and the front door bang shut. 

Sherlock sighed and moved from bedroom to bathroom with his own clothing and makeup supplies. He normally dressed to a particular effect, but tonight was going to be different. His clothing was going to speak to more than confidence, taste, and awareness of his own appearance; he was going to ooze the barely restrained aggression and rampant, entitled ego so typical in certain ranks of businessmen. He needed to sell himself to Kingston first as a potential ally and voice of reason before the other shoe dropped and Kingston realized he had nowhere left to run and could hide nothing.

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock put on a new coat he'd bought for the occasion and left the flat. Everything he needed was secreted away in several different pockets. All that remained was to catch a cab and start the game.

Jim's low thrum of approval washed through him on the ride to the exclusive casino, but the spirit refrained from saying much at all. Silence remained Sherlock's company as they travelled south, near to the river and amidst the throng of traffic.

The place wasn't new to Sherlock--a trendy, long standing meeting ground for several former clients. Jim did not seem to hold any particular sentiment over the casino and, as Sherlock had come to know him, it was difficult imagining the former criminal was one of its frequent faces. 

By the time he arrived, the sun had long descended and the night crowd had hit the streets in full swing. Even in the chill, short dresses and pressed slacks bundled into winter jackets thronged around Sherlock as he made his way across the street and into the club, no sign of Sebastian. 

A flash of his membership card at the door was all it took to enter. The Colony Club wasn't as exclusive as it pretended to be; there were no invitation hurdles and networking requirements to gain entry. Once you could bankroll the one-time membership fee, you were in.

It showed in the clientele, as well. All were well-dressed, some exceedingly so—it showed in the flash of cufflinks and the whiteness of smiles, glittering earrings and sprayed on suntans, but there was little of the extravagance one could find at the extremely private clubs attended only by the highest rungs of society. These were aspiring social climbers. They came here to see, be seen, network, pretend to be living their dream life, and to bet... but not too steeply. 

Sherlock began walking the rooms, scanning the crowd and keeping an eye out for Sebastian while slowly migrating towards the bar. A murmured word with the bartender and a note passed him a gin and tonic, purchased as a prop than actual desire for a drink.

Still Jim remained silent. His presence had receded into the background of Sherlock's awareness, small and subtle, but there if he reached for it. 

The lay of the club was not optimal for comfort, with low ceilings and an ovular bar as the centerpiece, a theme repeated throughout the restaurant and overhead the gaming tables. The intimate lighting and condensed area did, however, give them a semi-secluded space to work with should they need to move Kingston into a corner. 

Kingston, as Sherlock finally spotted him, did not stand out from the crowd. He was an early greying man who currently sat at the blackjack tables with an unfortunate way of leaning heavily into his seat with his shoulders hunched. It made him appear more piggish than not. Still, he looked to be doing moderately well for himself in regards to the game.

The table played another round of hands before Sherlock spotted Sebastian moving through the crowd. Not directly toward Kingston, but circling well within view. 

Sebastian cleaned up well. 

Sherlock could see at not so far a distance that the man had been right to downplay the effect his facial scars would have on a crowd during their planning earlier. He seemed perfectly at home, leisurely moving from one table to the next. It was a certain trick of genetics and personality, the way his whole face could open up, the deep grooves around his eyes from stress and sun and the scars from much worse would melt into his persona and become something far more flattering than not.

Sherlock was very conscious of just how much a difference small details made. Lighting, posture, body language and expression, the right clothing - all could combine and drastically change the impression one gave off. Even with that knowledge, Sherlock couldn't help but watch with some amount of admiration. An admiration that wasn't in any way diminished by Sebastian's failure to completely disguise the military clip in his step. If anything, somehow that added to the allure.

Kingston either wasn't skilled at criminal games, or he'd fallen out of practice. The man continued to focus on the cards and table in front of him, oblivious to the rest of the room and the danger striding closer with every second.

It wasn't until they were collecting their chips that Sebastian made contact. He did so smoothly, just as Kingston was scanning the room, making steps toward another table, and then Sebastian was at his side, snapping the man's attention to him with a very unsubtle comment by the look of things. 

To anyone else, the two men might have known each other. Sebastian walked in stride until Kingston stopped and paled. Sherlock could see from where he stood that the man looked stricken as Sebastian continued to speak with a friendly enough expression, one hand touching the back of Kingston's arm to lead him away from the tables just so, but the words were kept just between them and Sherlock could be sure that he was delivering nothing less than a threat on the man's life in regards to the debt owed his former employer.

Sherlock waited a heartbeat or two, then called up the persona he'd built and slipped it into place. He strode towards the two men with the absolute arrogance of those who were used to power and luxury, those who never took 'no' for an answer. Sherlock couldn't see himself, but he could feel the difference it made - an aggressive tension in his shoulders, lines of cruelty around his mouth and eyes, a slight tilt to his head and a predatory cadence in his step. 

"You gentlemen will have to pardon me for butting in," Sherlock interrupted with a brittle smile that didn't reach his eyes, not apologetic in the least. "The tune sounds familiar. Just what seems to be the problem here?"

Sebastian's eyes widened, not an act. He was taken aback by Sherlock’s new appearance, the dark clothes, the way his hair slicked back, straight and sweeping from his temples to the nape of his neck, the way the look set his eyes sharper and his brow angrier. Even his shirt was undone to expose his long stretch of throat and collar. In short, he looked like a rich, smarmy, cruel version of himself and nothing at all like the posh detective that occasionally graced the front covers of the London news stands. 

Kingston was equally thrown off guard, but from the way his eyes darted to Sherlock, any interruption to his conversation with Sebastian was welcome. If there was a chance Sherlock’s arrival could get him out of Sebastian's sights, he was about to take it. "Ah, just, a misunderstanding I believe. From a former associate of ours who believes I owe him something, which I don't." Kingston looked beseechingly at Sebastian, whose eyes narrowed. Kingston couldn't exactly go about explaining he owed the late Moriarty a large sum of money, least of all why. 

"Who are you?" Sebastian cut in. 

"Someone in the network," Sherlock countered smoothly, eyes cold and calculating as they darted between Sebastian and Kingston. He turned his attention to the latter, openly sizing him up in a matter of seconds. "...I think I remember hearing about you. One of the Barclays contacts, working in wealth and investment management. Coming up on your 10th year there, aren't you?"

Kingston's round jaw worked before he thought to reply, "Yes! Yes, in fact I am. And if you were part of the network, then surely you can vouch for my credibility." His beady eyes sought Sebastian's as though he were about to be vindicated. He'd taken the bait. Sherlock had him talking now, openly, or just openly enough. So long as he didn't implicate himself in Sebastian's eyes or anything even worse, Kingston would find a degree of camaraderie in Sherlock's presence. "I mean, of course none of us knew one another, not officially. But I was, well, I was part of the West side leg of the route, as it were. Five years, and you'd have heard word of it yourself if the guys upstairs had any odd questions about me, right?" 

"Five years until the day he died," Sebastian cut in, shifting his own weight in a mild display of authority. His eyes flashed back to Sherlock every other second, perfectly wary of the newcomer. 

"And what makes you think I had anything to do with that?" Kingston rounded quickly before lowering his voice, "The drop never even made it to me before we found out and everything went to hell." But he was sweating. And rushing.

"None of us in financials had the means to get involved in something like that, even if someone was stupid enough to want to kill business." Sherlock was watching both men, but he'd shifted ever so slightly, aligning his shoulders and hips parallel to Kingston. A subtle message, but clear: he was siding with the banker. Sebastian's unfriendly, suspicious look settled on him, and Sherlock made a show of straightening into a stiffer, defensive posture. "Mistakes in the chain of trade happen, and they happened even back then. If there's a misunderstanding, I'm sure we can clean it up. Rocking the boat too much is bad for business. ...so is retiring valuable oarsmen."

Kingston raised his brows and his drink to that, a clear burst of relief written all over him. Sebastian had yet to look convinced, but this had bolstered his hopes. 

Sebastian smiled in return, but it wasn't kind. He had eyes only for Kingston now, and took a step into the man's space, lowering his voice. "500 grand doesn't just go missing, and I've looked through every hop in the chain. That was a nice vacation you took the year after, wasn't it? Bali, am I right?"

Kingston's hackles raised. "How can I convince you? If _he_ is back.... well, you're going to have a lot of these problems to follow up on, aren't you?" He seemed to flounder for a moment, looking to Sherlock and then back to Sebastian. "You can't prove anything. Bali isn't so extravagant when you do it frugally." 

"I can prove you were in talks with the Met only weeks after," Sebastian countered, smile plastered to his face. "I know they had reason to enter your flat. Did you sell us out?" 

Kingston paled further.

"Gentlemen, I suggest we take this off the floor," Sherlock interrupted, giving both men a razor-thin smile. "It's rude to block traffic around the tables, and rudeness gets noticed, which is something I think we'd all prefer to avoid. I happen to have paid access to one of the private gaming rooms."

Kingston tensed and looked like he was considering his escape options. Sherlock regarded him with a raised brow. "I'm sure there's a perfectly valid explanation for all of this. It isn't as if a number of contacts didn't get questioned when things got shaken up."

Sebastian did his best to look thoroughly displeased at this turn of events, which Kingston picked up on. He looked to Sherlock as though for reassurance, as though having Sherlock there with them would save him from Sebastian's judgement. 

"Alright." 

Sherlock led the way, Kingston stiff between himself and Sebastian. He caught the barest hint of a smile at the blond's mouth before it was gone. It had been meant for him. Sebastian was enjoying himself. Or about to be. 

Jim, however, remained reserved.

Sherlock didn't break character. He walked with confidence, pretending that there was no question that Kingston would follow. It was quite possible that the man would have bolted, if not for the fact that Sebastian was right behind him and preventing escape. Kingston was still operating under the assumption that he was going to get out of here unharmed, or else he wouldn't have agreed to move to a room with fewer eyes and possibly intervening hands.

Sherlock had no such confidence. It was plainly obvious that the banker had sold Jim out, and portions of the network with him. What remained to be seen is what had happened to the money, who Kingston might be linked to in law enforcement, and how much damage he'd done. As soon as Sherlock extracted the information, Sebastian was unlikely to leave him alive.

As far as guilty men went, Sherlock generally did not feel much in the way of sympathy, and Kingston was no exception to this. A banker could destroy more lives more completely than one armed thug on the street. What preoccupied Sherlock's mind was what would follow; a high profile murder would be noticed and had the potential to bring an investigation to his door.

Overlooking the rest of the club there were spaces for private game and meeting rooms, rooms where the high stakes deals went down, and Sherlock led them to the one he had paid for, followed by Kingston followed by Sebastian, who locked the door behind him as soon as it closed. 

"Much better." A genuine smile drew slowly over Sebastian's face as he crossed his arms, noticeably blocking the door. "I think it's about time to come clean, don't you?" 

Kingston turned in surprise at Sebastian's surety, which, to be fair, was a bit of a bluff, but they would find out soon enough. 

"For all of us." Sebastian’s blue eyes moved over Kingston's shoulder to settle on Sherlock, just as Sherlock felt a spike of Jim's anticipation. 

It took Kingston a moment for the blond’s words and body language to sink in. When they did, the man turned, horror filtered into his face. Sherlock stared back blankly, still and lifeless as glass. He let that expressionless mask linger for a moment longer before his features turned into a predatory grimace that only vaguely resembled a smile. He had used it to terrify interrogation subjects before, and it had precisely the effect he was hoping for. Color drained from Kingston's face.

"I wasn't _precisely_ lying. I had heard of him, and I am in the network, but never anyone he's happened to meet. Probably for the best. He panicked and sold out everyone he knew as soon as Moriarty's continued existence was in question. Probably wanted out even before then, but didn't want to risk the consequences - not until he thought there might be a possibility to get away free from consequences on _either_ side." Sherlock's head tilted, raptorlike, and he began to circle around Kingston. Slowly. "He didn't spend it all right away. I'd venture there's still quite a lot squirreled away in a few accounts, between the amount he 'lost' and the stipend he was paid for his... compliance with law enforcement."

Sebastian's smile spread wide, trusting Sherlock's verdict. He looked like an animal. Kingston shrank back from Sherlock, but there was nowhere for him to go, not with the way Sherlock was circling. "I didn't, I swear-" 

"What else did you give them?" Sebastian cut him off, stepping forward to assert his presence, but not far enough to get in Sherlock's way. Sherlock was leading now. 

"No, you _really_ can't prove anything..." Kingston turned to Sherlock again, visibly distressed. His voice turned simpering and shrewish, one last pained attempt at convincing them.

"Mr. Kingston, I think you're underestimating the skill of those employed in the higher ranks. Just because you are an imbecilic fool doesn't mean all of us are." Sherlock's mind was already humming away, cataloguing the man's reactions and his own deductions. Disappointingly, much of it came down to simple math. "I also think you're overestimating the quality of your cover. You had been operating without troubles prior to the rumor of your employer's disappearance. You held onto the money as a test - any small deviation would normally result in contact of some sort to see why the drop had failed. It was a calculated risk to test whether the rumors you'd heard were true and there was no one monitoring the system anymore."

Kingston was shaking now, his racing pulse nearly visible in the bulge of his neck. Sherlock felt a thrill run through him - the same adrenaline high that accompanied the end of a game, when he was finally close to snaring the culprit in a trap they couldn't escape. "When a couple weeks passed without contact, you saw the out you'd wanted, but never thought achievable. With a severance bonus, no less. You'll have put the drop money away and hid the trails before contacting the Met, likely with some sob story about how you'd gotten roped into the network, and decided to pre-emptively save your own skin by selling out what few contacts you knew in the network before they panicked and did the same. The timing will have coincided nicely; you entered a protection program and left the country suddenly on your vacation, likely with tickets purchased from an account that had received a sudden deposit. The Met will have waited until you had departed, then raided and arrested a number of individuals, all with close ties to you. All individuals you would have known by name, or been able to guess based upon information at your disposal. Evidence."

"That's the pertinent point here, Mr. Kingston," Sherlock continued. "The justice system has to be very particular about gathering sufficient evidence to convict a suspect, but you're not in court. All that's needed is enough evidence to convince Moriarty that my deductions are correct... and Moriarty trusts my judgment."

Sherlock's chest bloomed with satisfaction, but the feeling was Jim's, not his own. Every time John looked up at him with pride, with that particular affection of his at watching Sherlock work...it felt like that. He'd used Moriarty's name, dropped it as though Sherlock worked with him every day, and though the deduction was simple enough, Jim's approval resonated through his core. 

Sebastian stalked forward. Kingston had recoiled first from Sherlock's accusation, backed up with more than enough probable plausibility this time, and then from Sebastian's grinning, vicious face. "That's all I need. You're coming with us.” Swiftly, Sebastian shoved Kingston against the wall, face forward, arm wrenched behind his back, "where you'll get one more chance to return what's left and live to tell. Or I kill you right here and now without a single regret."

"He would, you know. I'd suggest taking his offer, because I don't think I'll be able to order him to stand down if you make a fuss." Sherlock had caught the flash of a microexpression on Sebastian's face; he was lying through his teeth. Sebastian wanted to take Kingston elsewhere before disposing of him, most likely after a more thorough questioning to find out what they could from him in person before they began scouring his financial accounts and old communication records. Sherlock wasn't certain the man was going to trust Sebastian's word, however; they'd already lied to him once, and Jim hadn't been the sort to let betrayals go unpunished. Kingston had to suspect that he was about to die no matter what he did.

As it was, his choices were to die for certain there, or risk death later by going with them. "I'll go," Kingston spluttered, and Sebastian loosened his grip. The banker tried to catch his breath, but he couldn't. He was trembling, a minor quake of his limbs that neither Sebastian nor Sherlock failed to notice. "I'll go," Kingston repeated when Sebastian didn't move back. "We can work something out?" 

"Depends on what you can offer. I'd start thinking, if I were you." Sebastian laid a heavy hand on his shoulder, turning him toward the door.

Kingston went, with Sebastian and Sherlock shadowing right behind him. Sebastian kept a close watch to make certain their target didn't run. Sherlock, in turn, watched the space around them.

For the first few rooms, no one spared them a second glace. Indeed, no one seemed to recognize Kingston at all. For all intents and purposes, their group looked like a trio of friends, guiding one member who'd had too much to drink. Not very classy, but not unusual for an establishment that was built around excess and indulgence.

Sherlock knew they were going to hit trouble as soon as they passed through the fourth room. Two sets of men spotted them and recognized Kingston. Those who had been lounging at a table on the far side of the room suddenly rose and disappeared through the exit, abandoning their drinks. The other set looked to be quickly settling their final bets and closing out of their game. Sherlock reached sideways and touched a palm to Sebastian's ribs. 

"I see," Sebastian murmured, causing Kingston to stiffen when he gripped his hand around the man's arm. Sherlock felt Jim's presence perk up. He'd been using a portion of his energy on the surveillance system since they arrived, but that hadn't been the reason for his quiet. "Get ready," Sebastian warned, picking up their pace, moving an increasingly distressed Kingston along in front of them with a hand hidden between their arms. He intended to make it to the door before a scene started, but Sherlock saw from the start that wasn't going to happen. 

Just over halfway to the exit, two men stepped into their path. It was enough to catch attention from the dealers and the bartender. Within minutes the floor manager would be down, and after that... "You going somewhere?" One of them asked. Kingston made to speak out, to call for help, to tip off these associates, but Sebastian shoved him back, nearly sending him down to the floor. It sent those around them into silence for a split second, the hush falling by degrees.

But he didn't stop there. As soon as surprise registered on the interloper's faces, Sebastian flew at them. "Get him out!" Sherlock heard him call. 

Sherlock's vision wavered from an adrenaline surge as he grabbed Kingston by the arm and collar. He hauled him to his feet and half-pushed, half-dragged Kingston through the doorway, twisting Kingston's arm behind him at an angle that would send a warning shock of pain through his shoulder. Sherlock's height advantage was nullified by Kingston's additional weight, making every step a struggle, but Sherlock was winning. They made it through the door and, from there, to an emergency exit tucked away in an alcove. An alarm shrieked as soon as Sherlock opened the door, then fizzled into silence.

Sherlock could hear sounds of fighting behind him, and underneath the commotion the footsteps of pursuit.

They were gaining on him, at least three. Sherlock could hear them separate from the sounds Sebastian made, or rather, Sebastian didn't make. He could hear shouts and grunts and curses from the other men, but he didn't hear Sebastian's voice once. 

In the air all around them, Jim was sparking to life, insofar as the metaphor allowed. Anticipation thrummed through Sherlock and he could tell it was not his own, not when it was wound tight through the very atmosphere, making the air heavy and the fine hairs at the back of his neck stand on end. He had a captive audience now, even if Jim wouldn't interfere. However this went down, he knew Jim wouldn't interfere. 

Kingston was crying in pain, crying for help, shaking with nerves and trying weakly to get away by the time their pursuers caught up with them at the corner of the street. 

Reality contracted. It was the same artificial sense of slowness that Sherlock remembered well from his time in the dojo and in other life-or-death situations. He moved with cold calculation: his limbs needed to be free to fight, and Kingston was not to be permitted to get away. Sherlock's first move was to break the man's arm in one swift jerk, followed by a kick that dislocated Kingston's knee and sent him tumbling to the ground.

Sherlock ducked right and felt a rush of air where a fist just missed colliding with his head. He pivoted and struck - one blow to crack his assailant's exposed ribs, then a sweep with a turn and grab that sent the man falling, still grunting in shock and pain. The throw set Sherlock off balance himself. He rolled with it, tucking his arms and shoulders and rising with the continued momentum.

He could hear Kingston's shock and pain in the distance, feel Jim's excitement spark, and see flurry of the remaining two men coming for him together. They hadn't slowed, hadn't had time to even as the first fell. From a distance, Sherlock could hear din of shouting voices from the casino. Estimated five minutes before the first responding police arrived, assuming they had been called the moment Sebastian threw Kingston to him. That meant they had to move fast. Sebastian could be lost in the crowd, piled under the sheer number of bouncers and Kingston's associates, for all he knew. There was no time to check. 

Sherlock exhaled sharply and moved, changing the angle so both men couldn't grab him at once and bear him down. He grabbed the punch one of them threw by the man's forearm, ducking under and jerking him off balance. While he stumbled, Sherlock turned and kicked at the second man. He didn't react quickly enough to the change in angle; Sherlock's kick caught him on the side of his face just as he was turning, far higher than any blow he might have expected. Sherlock's foot stung, and there would be a livid bruise across it later, but his opponent went down with a sickening crack that suggested he'd broken the man's cheek bone. Sherlock caught a glimpse of a dislodged eye while he turned away.

He had to duck a flurry of incoming blows. The first man was furious, moving fast with overpowered, ill-controlled attacks to try to bring him down quickly. Sherlock danced backwards, staying just out of reach. He watched and waited, looking for the perfect opening, and found one in an over-extended arm. With one hand he caught the man’s wrist, with the other he jabbed upwards and devastated a vulnerable elbow. The man's screams were short-lived; Sherlock pulled him off balance, flipped him, and the man's head collided with the pavement.

Heavy footfalls registered behind him and Sherlock spun just in time to see Sebastian running at them, coming up short. He took in the scene with widened eyes before settling on Sherlock and seemed to shake himself. Sebastian darted to grab Kingston, hauling him to his feet with the man screaming. It didn't slow his pace any. "Down the street." 

They were pursued, but not very far. Only those left were the patrons of the Colony Club, and they didn't stray beyond the edges of the sidewalk as Sherlock and Sebastian carried a stumbling, sobbing Kingston away. 

Sebastian piled them into the car he’d left at a meter, Kingston tossed in the back and him behind the wheel. Sherlock had barely scrambled inside before they peeled away from the kerb and Sebastian tossed something metal at him. "Cuff him to the seat."

Sherlock grabbed the cuffs out of the air and snapped them around Kingston's wrists. He ignored the way the man yelped when his broken arm got jostled and twisted. "Well, this is splendid. Now we have a number of witnesses who will doubtlessly be painting vivid pictures for the Met when they come calling. I rather thought the entire idea was _not_ to draw attention to the fact that you're still in the country!"

Sebastian scowled, huffing a breath through his nose and steadfastly staring out the windshield as they swerved around traffic. "No shit. At this point I _will_ have to leave the country." Police sirens began to wail in the distance. His grip turned white on the steering wheel. "You alive back there?" He called, not bothering to turn. There was no way he'd mistaken Kingston's muffled gasps and sobs of panic as anything but. "Good. Cause after all that shit you put us through, you won't be for much longer."

They swerved around a corner. Sebastian was about to improvise on their plan. Sherlock could tell. Down by the waterfront, this was where they'd meant to end Kingston if they'd had to, but they didn't have time now, and Sebastian wasn't slowing. He was taking the ever narrowing side streets with tires screeching. They could see docks in the distance, a break in the gleaming lights, the darkness of the Thames swallowing them up only to rise again on the other side. 

"Unlock your door," Sebastian warned. "Get out when I tell you."

Sherlock felt a strange calm enter him. Control had been wrenched out of his hands, to a certain degree. None of this had been part of the plan, and he was already committed by circumstance. He'd been seen, he'd taken down the thugs who'd come after him outside the club, and now they were barreling towards the Thames. Part of Sherlock's mind began ticking down how it would happen, drowning: panic and automatic reflexes, laryngospasm, dilution of the blood by osmosis once liquid was inhaled, then likely cardiac arrest, hypothermia and cold shock...

Sherlock knew he should be feeling horror, or some sort of sympathy. Or perhaps distress at the circumstances he'd found himself in. Instead, the high of the Game was singing in his blood, and he could feel Jim - curled around him, warm, excited, and radiating the praise and admiration Sherlock had missed for so long. It created a vivid sense of pleasure that was far different from any drug he'd ever indulged in.

Sebastian's voice hit his ears again, and Sherlock moved without a second thought. The door opened and he bolted out of the vehicle, grunting in pain while he rolled to a stop.

Sebastian left not a second later, he caught it out of the corner of his eye, just a flash of dark jacket and sandy hair. He'd gunned the engine, aiming for a loading dock. The car careened forward, unstoppable momentum taking it through the flimsy chain and across the platform. He could hear Kingston's scream before it hit the water, sounding with a crack in the black, bubbling oil of the river. Sherlock could hear it until the car was submerged. It didn't take long at all, not with their doors open. 

Across from him, Sebastian was picking himself up off the ground, dusting off his knees, rolling one shoulder and then the other, painfully, checking to make sure he hadn't broken anything. His face scrunched in pain, but he came toward Sherlock with a sure step. He was alright. He'd had a livid bruise across most of his torso and back since the dislocated shoulder, and it had to be in agony now, but he could move. His eyes assessed Sherlock, glancing for injury the same way Sherlock watched him. It took less than a moment before he was moving quickly again, knowing Sherlock would follow. "Bike isn't far."

Sherlock got to his feet, aching and bruised and with a patterning of scrapes here and there, but otherwise unharmed. He limped after Sebastian as quickly as he was able; the bruise from his fight with Kingston's companions was finally starting to make itself known. From the twinges of pain every time he moved his foot or settled his weight onto it, the skin was going to be a dark purple when he finally looked. Possibly even concealing a hairline fracture in one of the bones.

Sherlock caught up with Sebastian and grabbed ahold of him for support. His eyebrows rose when the blond slid an arm around his shoulder and helped him take a bit of the weight off his foot. 

The bike they'd planted earlier was in fact only a block away. Sebastian had gotten them near enough, where they would have had to ditch the car anyway so as not to be followed. This whole thing was a trick of improvisation now, Jim's plans did not normally turn out this way, but they'd played it well. 

They found the bike in the alley they'd left it, and Sebastian dragged away its camouflage of cardboard sheets and bins before again holding a hand out to Sherlock and helping him up behind Sebastian. He made sure Sherlock had to wrap his arms around Sebastian's waist to hold on, but Sebastian welcomed it, making sure he was holding tight enough before kicking up the stand and getting them out of there as fast as possible. 

Sherlock had never been the second passenger on a motorcycle before. The machine's engine kicked in far more rapidly than he had been expecting. His hold around Sebastian tightened and he had to tuck himself against the man’s back, both to avoid curious eyes and the sudden sting of wind.

Sebastian felt like the one steady thing in a world of motion. He was going to have to leave the country after this... but so would Sherlock. Sherlock had realized as much as soon as he'd catalogued just how far the plan had gone wrong. Rather than anger or loss, he felt strangely at peace with it, numb and quiet. He'd do what it took to survive, and right now that necessitated closing the door on the portion of his life he'd tried so hard to return to.

Jim's warmth embraced him. He could feel it as real as the warmth of Sebastian's body molded to his front. Jim wasn't speaking, but he wasn't silent. Everything Jim felt filtered through now. If he were real, if he were there with them, he would be stroking fingers through Sherlock's hair and whispering words of endearment in his ear. 

The devil takes care of his own.


	18. Chapter 18

Sebastian took them all the way back to the Baker Street flat, hiding the bike again in the alley, and with Sherlock's help in avoiding the CCTV cameras, they slipped back inside. All was quiet. Mrs. Hudson wasn't home, on vacation visiting her sister if Sherlock recalled correctly. Or brother. Some relative.

Still, they were silent until Sebastian came right up to him, hands going to tug Sherlock's shirt free from his trousers, intent on inspecting the damage. 

Sherlock was still lost in a daze. His body remembered something like this from before - getting bundled off at the end of cases to be checked for injury. Impatient hands in the back of ambulances had eventually been replaced with kind ones within the Baker Street flat - equally clinical, but far more comforting that what had previously been routine.

He moved his arms automatically when his shirt was unbuttoned and peeled off. Cool air hit his skin, followed by hands that sought out each injury point. They pressed gently, testing the health of the muscle and bone beneath the surface. It took a few more moments for Sherlock to start drifting back. The hands touching him were larger than he remembered.

It was Sebastian's eyes he met when he looked up, clearer blue, striking even in the low light. The man smiled when he saw Sherlock looking. Sebastian was pleased. Interestingly, Sherlock felt Jim's satisfaction coil tighter inside him. "You'll be okay," Sebastian pronounced, lowering Sherlock's shirt and leaving the hem of his trousers be where he'd felt the jutting bone of Sherlock's hips. But Sebastian's voice was too soft, too deep, and he didn't move away. Sherlock could feel his attention as intimately as though....as though they had just narrowly escaped capture, managed to pull off what they'd set out to do against the odds, been on a high of adrenaline and violence, that Sebastian had seen Sherlock really, truly fight, and that Sherlock had exceeded his expectations. All of their expectations. 

Sherlock stared back. Neither of them were moving away, and Sebastian was close enough that Sherlock could have sworn the air felt warmer from the heat radiating from him. "Perhaps eventually," Sherlock finally replied, too soft to sound very certain of himself. He wasn't going to feel the full repercussions right away. They would come later - when he would have to burn what he couldn't take with him or leave behind, or when he packed away his violin for travel, or even when the hum of a plane engine reached through the steel frame and cushioned seats to rattle his bones thousands of miles in the air. Bruises would pass quickly; emotions would linger for far longer.

"I'm... uncertain how badly I injured my foot during the fight. I've never tried to break someone's face with that particular kick before."

Sebastian's smile reached his eyes. "Sit." He drew Sherlock into the armchair, John's old armchair though he did not know, and bent down to slip off Sherlock's shoe. He glanced up when Sherlock winced, but rolled down the sock smoothly and pressed his hand over the side of it. It was red where it had made impact. "That's going to be one hell of a bruise," Sebastian said, fingers sliding up to feel the bones, "but nothing's broken." His blue eyes glanced back up to Sherlock and Sherlock could tell Sebastian knew how odd a picture he made on the floor like that because a certain amusement came into his gaze. He slid Sherlock's sock back on, but left the shoe where it was on the floor. One by one his hands trailed up Sherlock's shin, to his knee, to the top of his thigh, just exploring as if on a whim. 

Sherlock sighed in pleasure. The ache in him was, evidently, deeper than mere bodily discomfort from the beating he'd taken. Heat from Sebastian's palms soaked through the fabric. It felt like concentrated sunlight. "Well, I make it a habit to try not to break myself. Usually." His self-destructive tendencies came with _some_ amount of moderation. 

"You clean up rather nicely. I admit I had some doubts about how well you'd fit in among a crowd of pampered, over-indulgent businessmen and bon vivants." Sebastian's thumb slid along the inseam of one thigh, and suddenly Sherlock was no longer thinking about the man's earlier figure and social mannerisms.

A wry grin had taken to the blond's face. "A little bit of family history can go a long way," he said enigmatically. Sherlock saw a slim slice of pink tongue against the man's mouth as Sebastian watched his own hands. Up and down they went, a little higher each time until Sherlock's hips moved to meet the touch. Sebastian lifted himself higher, riding his thumbs in the dip where Sherlock's thighs met his groin. Jim's affirming presence hadn't quieted. If anything, it felt stronger, a song they should have heard echoing all around them, but all Sherlock could do was feel it. 

Sebastian lifted himself to meet Sherlock, hands never moving. "We've got to get out of here," he said against Sherlock's lips. 

Sherlock quivered, his body stopping halfway through an arching motion as its need for touch clashed with the reality of the situation. "...I know," he whispered. Sebastian was always ready to be on the move, but Sherlock needed to pack, needed to destroy a few pieces of evidence. It would take the Met some time to fit all the pieces together, get a warrant, and send someone to his door. Mycroft's men would be far quicker and wouldn't bother with formalities like civil law.

Sherlock's hands rose and rested on Sebastian's sides. 

He seemed reluctant to let go, too. His lips brushed at the corner of Sherlock's mouth as he spoke. "Get what you need. We'll find a place for the night. Tomorrow we'll leave." But then he pulled back, rising to his feet as Sherlock's hands slid free. Sebastian took a breath before he turned and went to his room to gather his things. 

It was conceivable that Sherlock could fight this. This was not the first time injuries or even casualties had occurred when he was in the middle of a case, undercover. The Met would likely side with him should he turn against Sebastian and make it clear that it had been his plan all along, that Kingston had died at his hand... even if the circumstances were highly questionable. Theoretically. Mycroft had gotten him out of worse. 

And yet, Sherlock rose and started to make his needed preparations. Even if he did betray the gunman in order to save this life, on the small chance that it worked... it was only going to delay the inevitable. Sherlock had realized halfway through the job that Jim needed this line of work, and denying him that outlet would make the spirit lose his will to exist. Jim could do without Sebastian, but not easily; Sherlock would have to take his place, or secure a new hired gun, this time of questionable skill, intelligence, and loyalty.

Sebastian had also managed to grow on him, bizarre as it was to contemplate. He was owned in a way that Sherlock had never quite owned John, and he was far more charming now that he wasn't trying to bully and inconvenience Sherlock at every chance he had.

Sherlock's hands paused for a few moments midway through stuffing more clothes into a suitcase. He stared at his room without seeing the walls - seeing, instead, lines of choice spreading out in front of him. Sentiment combined with logic; he shook his head and began packing more quickly. He took a mix of necessities, mementos he couldn't bear to lose, and the illegal substances he'd stashed away in hidden cubbyholes. Everything else could be replaced or done without. It was sobering to see his life condensed into two cases - one for his violin, and one for everything else.

Sebastian was back down and waiting for him in the sitting room. The man slung his own pack over his shoulder and helped Sherlock with his, taking the weight off his injured foot. 

Mrs. Hudson would be lonely, but taken care of. Mycroft would see to that. John and Mary might see to the former once they'd sorted their lives out a bit. 

Sebastian waited patiently at the door for Sherlock to take one last look around. He knew Sherlock hadn't planned for this, and though more silent than not, he was being respectful. Jim's presence hadn't dampened much, still warm, still affirming. 

One they were out on the kerb, Sebastian hailed for a cab. 

Sherlock refused to look behind him. He hadn't looked back any of the times he'd left a major portion of his life behind before: not when he quit university, not when he got out of rehab for the final time, not when he'd left to dismantle Moriarty's network without knowing if he'd survive the mission. If anything, his faked death had proved one thing to him - that those he cared about would survive just fine without him. Better than fine, even.

Sherlock felt all the more alone for it, despite the fact that Jim was coiled inside him and Sebastian was at his side. 

It wasn't long before they were taxied to the other end of the city, then out, into another cab, and then off in the opposite direction. Close to the airport. If Mycroft got to their first driver, he'd be led astray. Only for so long, they all knew, but that was all they needed. One night in a hotel, on a plane in the morning. Jim had acquired enough funds to make it happen, and he wasn't sparing expense on their accommodations. 

Sherlock found himself and Sebastian at the front desk of an upscale hotel next to Heathrow, requesting a room for the night without trouble. 

Sherlock made it up to the room and behind closed doors before his shoulders began to droop. The room they'd been given was rich and tasteful, full of all the comforts money could buy a weary traveler. The contrast to 221B's weathered, patinated walls, riddled with bullet and thumbtack holes, covered with crime scene photos and curiosities, severed the last thread that had been holding Sherlock's composure together. He walked over to the room's single bed and sank down on the edge, pinching his temples with the fingers of one hand and hiding his face against his palm.

Sebastian let him be, taking the time to bring his own things to the bathroom and rummage around for first aid supplies. It was fortunate that neither of them had been hit in the face, but Sebastian was swallowing painkillers for his shoulder nonetheless. 

Sherlock felt a light breeze ruffle his hair and knew it was Jim. Jim, who was letting him have this moment without interruption, without trying to persuade him to feel better. It would be transparent if he tried, Sherlock knew how much Jim wanted this. How glad he was that Sherlock had taken to his game at last. 

Rough as the moment was, it passed quickly. Sherlock was no stranger to regret, loss, or disappointment. Things had gone awry, but he had enjoyed parts of Jim's game to a certain extent. More than he had been expecting, at the least. What Jim needed and what he needed didn't match exactly, but the test job had proven that they weren't incompatible. A balance could be reached, and would have to be, considering that Sherlock had now entirely thrown his lot in with Jim... and with Sebastian.

He watched the doorway to the loo, observing the outline that reappeared and paused once the blond spotted Sherlock staring. He must have looked better because Sebastian relaxed subtly, leaning against the doorframe. 

"Second thoughts?" the man asked before moving to the coffee maker, filling it with enough for two cups. 

Sherlock felt a coil of amusement from Jim. Sebastian was making himself busy. If Jim's response was any indication, the man had never been good with tender discussion. Still, the coffee didn't take long, and Sebastian faced Sherlock again, setting one steaming cup beside the lamp at his bed. The bed. Sebastian sat slowly next to Sherlock, taking a sip. 

"No. I'm not much for second thoughts, in general. If I've already examined the facts and made the best available decision, there's no reason to waste time on impossibilities and lesser choices." Sherlock watched tendrils of steam rise from the cup on the bedside table. He'd always tended to drink tea before all of this had started; at this point he was beginning to associate the smell of coffee with Jim's presense.

"Are you having second thoughts? I'm not as self-sufficient as Jim."

That wry smile was back. "We've still got Jim." He held the cup loosely in his hands, shoulders hunched ever so. Sherlock could see that one was tighter than the other, but Sebastian was, for the most part, relaxed. That might not have sounded like a very good answer to the point of Sherlock's question, and Sebastian seemed to realize this. "No. I'm not." He took another long sip of his coffee before putting it down on the night stand and turning back to Sherlock. Sherlock, who's still slicked back hair but now much softer expression were at odds with what he'd been at the club. Sebastian liked it, he could tell by the way the man was looking at him. Sebastian bent closer, finding the seam of Sherlock's shirt and following it up, a stealthy way of slipping into his space, before his finger hooked into the collar. Sebastian tugged lightly.

Sherlock hesitated for a second, intently scanning Sebastian's features. He relaxed when he confirmed that Sebastian was looking _at_ him, not through him. Sebastian's voiceless suggestion was easily understood, but it took Sherlock another moment to figure out what he himself wanted. Comfort, mostly. Pleasure, something to forget, and the stakes were too high to fall to the temptation of the substances he'd brought with him, dulling his senses and starting this new chapter of his life while struggling with addiction and withdrawal again.

Grey eyes focused with increasing sharpness on Sebastian's face. Sherlock started undoing the buttons on his shirt.

Sebastian's mouth turned up at the corners. He watched as one button after another fell away to expose Sherlock's chest. The scratches and bruises were mostly at his arms and thighs, but there was one on his shoulder. Sebastian scooted closer, hand sliding up to the back of Sherlock's neck. He bent to the spot until his mouth was against it, sucking and laving into the tender flesh. 

Jim was not silent this time. _"Lie back,"_ he said softly as Sherlock's shirt parted, as Sebastian slid it down his shoulders. _"I want to try something."_

Sherlock hissed. Sebastian's attentions didn't hurt much, but the area was sensitive enough that it was uncomfortable. He waited until his arms were free of his sleeves, then leaned back. Sebastian didn't follow right away - just watched with some amount of surprise when Sherlock settled back against the pillows. The glint that immediately sparked in the blond's eye made Sherlock tense, both from sudden nervousness and an accompanying flush of heat. _"...what are you thinking of?"_

_"I'd like to take you under, to join me here in your mind."_ Jim's voice was quiet, sensing the need to make this a proposal, not a demand. Sebastian climbed atop Sherlock with heat in his gaze, blood thrumming at the position Sherlock had put himself in. He bent and found the other side of Sherlock's neck before lowering his body down, pressing against Sherlock in all the right places. _"I'd like to take him under as well."_ Jim finished softly. 

Sherlock's breath hitched. His hands had risen automatically, one curled around Sebastian's waist while the other cupped the back of his neck. _"Can you even do that?"_ Sherlock's voice in his mind was filled with disbelief. He'd always assumed that Jim had been able to pull that particular trick due to the way they were tied together. It was less of a stretch to think about Jim manipulating his body to force him unconscious than it was to imagine Jim reaching into other people and doing the same. If he'd figured out how to do such a thing, Jim's powers had truly dangerous potential.

Sebastian ground against Sherlock, and Sherlock's eyes closed. "...yes," he finally managed. _"Try it."_

Sherlock felt Jim's presence expand from his body, just far enough to reach Sebastian. He heard the man moan sluggishly, felt his body mold against Sherlock's with more weight than it had before, not realizing what was happening at first. It was happening to him slowly, much slower than with Sherlock. But then Sebastian's head lifted, eyes bleary. He looked at Sherlock with a creeping sense of disquiet. "What...?" His voice trailed off. Sherlock could feel the cold. He could feel Jim drawing on his energy. Sebastian's hand clung tighter to his scalp. 

"It's alright." Sherlock stroked a hand down Sebastian's side. "It's a trick Jim has done with me. Just try to relax. He's making you tired enough to sleep, and then he'll do the same to me... and then he'll pull both of us into my mind. With him." Sherlock hoped that would be reassurance enough. He couldn't predict how this would work with another person, given that they'd never tried it before, but Sherlock guessed that seeing Jim again would be a powerful motivation to get Sebastian to relax.

He was right. Sebastian blinked, mouth open in surprise, but his eyes began to droop. Sherlock felt the way his body began to relax, letting it happen instead of fighting it. Finally, his head dropped to Sherlock's chest. Jim released the drain on him. It hadn't been so noticeable until Jim stopped. But then that pull was directed at Sherlock and before he could move Sebastian off him, Sherlock felt himself sinking as well. 

Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed, and he felt a falling sensation that was becoming very familiar. He couldn't help but try to reach out and grab onto something, but there was nothing to grab and no way to stop the feeling until he'd reached the dream state.

When Sherlock opened his eyes, he wasn't in anyplace familiar. Rather than his flat, or the seaside house, or even the wood-paneled corridors of his mind, he'd awoken on the floor of a different flat - somehow both minimalistic and rich, with bold colors and outlines characterizing the few visible pieces of furniture. If he was still in his own mind, this was in the portion that Jim had sectioned off for himself. The room might have been a recreation of a place from Jim's memories, or pure fabrication. Either was equally possible.

Something cold touched the back of his neck and just as he twisted around, he came face to face with Jim, smiling and pristine. The hole in the back of his head was gone, his suit was pressed, and there was colour in his face. He must have been tired from the extra strain, but he was too cheerful at this little accomplishment for it to show. He lifted himself up to Sherlock, a little on his toes, and his smile spread. "Good job back there. Glad to have you with us." 

A quiet groan from the other side of the room caught their attention, and Jim moved to tend to Sebastian. Sebastian, who was lying on the rug of the sitting room as though he were its centerpiece. Jim bent low, a soft smile settling over his mouth as Sebastian opened his eyes. 

Jim was the first thing he saw. Even though he spoke so quietly, Sherlock heard him as clearly as though he'd shouted. " _Shit. Jim._ "

Sherlock walked around until he and Jim flanked Sebastian. The blond looked so stricken that Sherlock couldn't help but smile. "Now you know where I've been going every night, so to speak. The trip down here takes a bit to get used to, but..."

Sherlock's gaze drifted toward the back of Jim's head. Sleek black hair greeted his eyes; he hadn't seen the bullet wound for some time now, no more reminders of the fact that Jim's body was gone. Sherlock reached out and ran his fingers through Jim's hair, then fondly ruffled it into a mess of spikes, just because he could. "It's well worth it."

Jim's inky eyes slid over to him disapprovingly, but Sherlock knew the touch was not unwelcome. "It's nice to see you too, Sebastian." 

Sebastian rose up onto his elbows. He couldn't take his eyes off Jim. His throat worked enough to swallow, but it took him a moment to form words. "Where am I?" 

"A shared dream, if you will." Jim sat back, allowing Sebastian to rise into a sitting position. "A space created using the arena of Sherlock's imagination. I've simply dragged you into it. Neat trick, really..." Jim twisted his head, cracking his neck, but his attention caught on Sherlock . Or more specifically, Sherlock's mouth. "Looked like you two were having fun," he whispered, drawing nearer with a smile, but he came up short, brushing a lock of Sherlock's hair away from his ear instead. 

Sebastian's breath stopped. 

Sherlock's breathing, in turn, had immediately sped up with his pulse. He felt prickles on his arms that could only be gooseflesh and noted, distantly, that he was beginning to be very well trained. All Jim had to do was look at him a certain way, start touching him... even just get a little too close, and Sherlock suddenly found himself wanting. From the way Jim's smile curled just a little wider and gained a wicked edge, Sherlock knew that was exactly the way Jim wanted it.

Sherlock closed the last few centimeters himself, kissing Jim without the slightest care that he was practically doing so over Sebastian's lap.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Sebastian's jaw go slack. It looked like the air had been punched out of him, but then he was breathing again, deep and fast as he watched Jim smile into the kiss. As he watched Sherlock take Jim's mouth. No fear, no hesitation. They broke apart and Jim still had that little curl to his lips, a crooked man with a crooked smile. Sebastian pulled himself up straighter.  
When Jim's head turned toward Sebastian, it didn't waver. The soft spikes of his hair tickled Sherlock's neck they were so close. "Let's see what we can do here, shall we." And then he was rising to his feet, sliding a hand along Sherlock's back, waiting for them to follow. Sebastian glanced at Sherlock and then scrambled to his feet. He was a full head higher than Jim, and the sight was rather strange, with him looking down with such awe. He was almost trembling. 

"Jim...." 

Jim closed his eyes and tilted his head as Sebastian reached out, almost hesitantly, to touch him.  
Sherlock stood and watched them. Part of him was touched by the raw emotion visible on Sebastian's face - understandable, given that he hadn't seen Jim for years, or been able to touch him and speak to him as himself. Another part of him... felt distinctly uncomfortable, even jealous, watching Sebastian touch Jim and knowing what the history was between them. It was irrational, given that he'd had sex with both of them and Jim's affections were not going to waver, but...

Sherlock felt like an intruder. Sebastian had originally begun to tolerate him out of necessity, because he was the one carrying Jim, the one thing fettering him to continued existence. Now that they knew Jim could pull Sebastian under and interact with the blond directly, Sherlock wasn't necessary for them to touch. Possibly he was even unwelcome. After all, why would Sebastian want him there as a reminder than Jim considered him less important, less worthy of affection?

Jim's head tipped back to Sherlock, Sebastian's fingers still held in his hair, pressed to his temple. Jim reached out. "Come here." He shouldn't have been able to read Sherlock's mind, but perhaps he didn't have to. His hand gripped Sherlock's arm and pulled him forward, well into Jim's space. Jim pressed the line of his body to Sherlock and looked up at him, ignoring Sebastian. 

But then Sherlock felt another hand around his waist, arm sliding smoothly across his stomach and another body pressing close from behind. "Thank you," Sebastian's voice rumbled in his ear. 

Jim was the only one of them able to see the brief flash of vulnerability cross Sherlock's face, or the way he blinked back the tears that had suddenly rimmed his eyes. Sherlock was able to hide everything but the way his breathing shifted. He didn't know where to put his hands, trapped between them as he was. One arm ended up draped around Jim's shoulders, and the other covered Sebastian's hand where he'd grabbed him around the waist. "...I thought you wouldn't want me here. He's-... you haven't really seen one another. Not without you borrowing me."

Sherlock felt the man's head turn into him. "And why would that make me not want you?" It was quite possible that although Jim and Sebastian had been together before, that this kind of intimacy was more than Sebastian ever had. 

Jim smiled. "I do think Seb here has become somewhat fond of you, Sherlock." Jim might have guessed. In fact, if he'd suspected before that he might be able to pull Sebastian under with himself and Sherlock, that might have been why he'd waited until they had...gotten to know each other better. Sherlock knew he couldn't have done it from the start. Jim had been getting stronger the more time they spent together, but still, he'd encouraged quite a lot between Sherlock and his former bodyguard. 

Sherlock gave Jim a flicker of a smile. "I'm simply aware that... our arrangement makes things difficult. I keep you here, but I'm also a barrier. Between you and Sebastian, between you and the ability to do what you want, whenever you want. I'm never quite certain where the line is between being wanted and being in the way." Sebastian shifted behind him, and Sherlock's eyes lost focus. He drew in a shaky breath. "Although at the moment, I think I have ample evidence that I'm not in the way."

Sherlock felt the breath of a laugh against his neck and even Jim's smile spread wider. "Good. Then perhaps we can take this to bed," Jim leaned closer, brushing his mouth to Sherlock's. His dark eyes fluttered down to inky slits of reflected light. Just as Jim's tongue touched his lip he felt Sebastian's mouth close down on his neck. The man's large hands drew down Sherlock's front, dipping where they had been before Jim brought them here. But then Jim was pulling back, grinning, sly, slinking away toward a darkened hall. 

Sherlock's thoughts skittered to a halt. The implications had been there as soon as he'd been bracketed by the two men, but Jim's words and their actions had made it reality. 

He'd seen such things before, during his brief stint of research when exploring his awakened sexuality. He'd known such things were possible and indulged in by people even before he'd witnessed it in pictures and films - crimes of passion weren't limited to cheating monogamous couples, after all. Polyamory wasn't as rare and unknown as it might have been decades in the past, and humans had similar problems no matter what structure their relationships took.

Sherlock was just having trouble processing what that meant for him, even as he was stumbling after Jim's retreating form with Sebastian close behind him. 

They followed Jim to a master bedroom, sparse but for the enormous bed. It might have been one of Jim's hideaways ensconced somewhere in one of the major Western cities, but the blinds of the window were drawn and Sherlock got the feeling that if he tried to open them, he would find nothing but darkness outside. 

Sebastian didn't want to let go, but when Jim took hold of Sherlock, drawing himself up upon the bed backwards, luring Sherlock after him clinging hands and biting kisses, Sebastian relented. Jim's shoes were flung to the floor and he bounced, flipping them so that Sherlock was beneath him, grinning wickedly down. 

Sherlock had become used to Jim being like this, after all the worry he'd had about whether Sherlock would enjoy his kind of work. It was still a bit overwhelming to have the smaller man pin him down and pounce on him, but no longer an unwelcome or fearful thing. He'd started to enjoy not just what Jim was able to do to him and how it made him feel, but the fact that he was the center of so much focus when Jim didn't feel much for... much of anyone or anything else. It was a unique sense of power. He wished Jim would say more, but actions would do.

The bed creaked and dipped beside Sherlock and then Sebastian was there, kneeling beside both of them.

It was a little strange how easily Sebastian took to this, questionable whether he and Jim had done something like this before. Except that, gone for years or not, being the focus of Sebastian's obsessive loyalty or not, Jim had put certain restrictions on their interaction and those remained in place. Sebastian would not fight those restrictions, not when he'd gotten this far. And what they'd both said was true, Sebastian was interested in Sherlock. Very interested, as evidenced by the way he sidled up close, reaching a hand between them to touch Sherlock. It didn't phase Jim, not even when Sebastian shifted closer, moving to turn Sherlock's head after Jim kissed him. 

Sherlock looked dazed. Jim was already working on stripping away what clothing lay between him and Sherlock's skin, and now Sebastian was watching him as hungrily as he'd been before they'd both slipped unconscious. Sherlock's brows furrowed with an unspoken question before he slowly, hesitantly, reached up and guided Sebastian closer. Sebastian didn't seem to have the same limitations or doubts once the invitation was extended; his lips replaced where Jim had just been, moving just as hungrily.

Sherlock heard the zip of his belt buckle fly free from its loops and then felt the buttons of his trousers being undone. Jim pulled them down with little preamble while Sebastian's fingers worked at his shirt buttons. They made quite a team taking Sherlock apart. From the look of Jim's smile and the light in Sebastian's eye, they knew it. In an odd way, this was how Sebastian felt close to Jim. It wasn't so much that he saw Sherlock as an extension of Jim, it was that he saw himself as one. 

Sherlock bit back a moan once Jim managed to tug his trousers down and slip a hand beneath the waistline of his pants. Jim wasn't wasting any time in getting what he wanted, and Sebastian was following Jim's lead. Sherlock's shirt parted and calloused fingers smoothed over his skin. Sherlock could feel his heart in his throat and he couldn't get enough air. His helpless reaction, if anything, only seemed to please the two men. Sherlock saw a flash of teeth from both of them. "...wh... what are you thinking?"

Jim smiled as he sat back to remove his own jacket and shirt before he was back on Sherlock, allowing Sebastian reprieve to do the same. "I want you inside me," Jim bit Sherlock's lip. "And Seb inside you." He came away with eyes gleaming. Sherlock could feel the way Sebastian's air caught now that he was shirtless and pressed back against Sherlock's side. Jim lifted his legs around Sherlock to straddle his hips, sitting atop Sherlock to mimic the position he intended. Against his ear, Sebastian groaned.

Jim's words had a similar effect on Sherlock; it took him a good few heartbeats to fully process what had been suggested. Made more difficult, perhaps, due to the way Jim was sitting atop of him and rocking suggestively. "I-... I don't know if I can, we haven't-" Or rather, he and Sebastian hadn't tried things with their positions reversed. Sherlock didn't want to admit he still found the blond intimidating, but he did, and for more than his aggressive demeanor. They were equal in height, but not equal in proportions. Injury was a concern. So was losing his mind. Sherlock was having trouble imagining what sort of sensory overload he'd be enduring, having the attention of both men on him at once. 

"Anything is possible inside your mind," Jim's smile gained a sly edge. That may have been true, but Sherlock knew well that even though this was his mind, Jim could control the environment just as easily as he could. Whether Sebastian could do the same remained to be seen. 

He felt Sebastian grin against his ear. "Would you let me?" he asked, just for Sherlock, his hand smoothing down Sherlock's chest to where his hips met Jim's, dipping between the creases of his flesh and the soft material of Jim's trousers and then back up again. His blue eyes were wide and imploring, staring into Sherlock like he couldn't have forced him if he'd wanted to. 

"Anything is possible within some bodily limits. Or did you forget how your bite mark showed up when I awoke?" Sherlock shivered; he'd felt those blunt fingers before, very briefly, but those weren't what he was concerned about. He'd had both men's cocks in his mouth, enough to make a comparison; Jim wasn't small, and Sebastian was larger. Muscles could stretch, but there was also the matter of comfort and carefulness. 

Sherlock's gaze flickered between Jim's smirk and Sebastian's entreating look. "I don't want to wake up bleeding."

"Then Seb will just have to be very careful," Jim bent down to hover close, resting his weight on an elbow opposite Sherlock's head. He placed a kiss to the corner of Sherlock's mouth. "He is very practised in restraint, aren't you, Sebastian?" Jim turned finally to regard the other man with a hint of the smile he'd had for Sherlock. 

Sherlock felt a puff of air and saw Sebastian's eyes close. He felt the man's hips shift into his hip. Jim had nearly knocked the wind from his lungs with just a look. But his hand remained gentle on Sherlock's stomach, stroking over his flesh up and down. 

Sherlock was trembling from nerves, completely uncertain - and hard as a rock, much to Jim's amusement. "I'm beginning to think you get off on forcing me into intimidating situations," Sherlock muttered, but there was no bite to his voice. Jim would know it for a lie if he denied that the idea had any appeal. 

Sherlock watched Sebastian until the man's eyes opened again. He licked his lips. "...alright, but only so long as we stop the instant I ask."

Blue eyes blinked. Sebastian looked relieved. And very, _very_ interested. 

"We'll take it slow," Jim purred against Sherlock's neck, nuzzling there as he undid his own belt. "Not all at once." He slipped his trousers down his legs. "I'll take care of you." Anyone else would have been a fool to believe such words from the mouth of Jim. But his eyes were fond when he looked up at Sherlock from the dip in his chest where he'd begun pressing kisses. His fingers hooked in Sherlock's pants and his smile grew as he pulled them down.

Sherlock bit his lower lip and tilted his hips up as best he could to let Jim remove the garment. He might have been a fool, but Jim _had_ taken care of him. At least to the best of Jim's capabilities, given that he was anything but nurturing. This much, he was starting to get used to from Jim - touching, tasting, demanding while sliding against and into one another. He gave a little moan when Jim's fingers curled around him, then frowned when Jim laughed quietly in return. "Are you ever going to stop teasing me about such things?"

Jim's head gave a little shake, eyes dancing in the low light. Jim slithered down his stomach until his smiling lips were right there, so close. He never broke his gaze when his tongue darted out to wet the tip. Then again. And again, a little more each time. Sebastian drew nearer, pressing up next to Sherlock and looking down alongside him to watch. Sherlock could feel the rise and fall of his chest, heavy as they followed Jim's show. The head of Sherlock's cock popped into Jim's mouth and never once did his eyes fall shut. Jim wasn't just giving Sherlock a show anymore. 

The undeniable knowledge that someone else was there, watching Jim do this to him... Sherlock bit down on the edge of his hand, both to muffle any sound he might make and hide the ridiculous face he knew he must be making. He could feel Sebastian's breath on his skin, arrhythmic like Jim was doing this to _him_ instead of Sherlock. 

Sherlock reached up and found rough stubble coating Sebastian's cheek. His eyes never left Jim. There was something hypnotizing about how the spirit's dark eyes glittered over the stretch of his mouth.

Sebastian finally dragged his gaze away, turning his attentions to Sherlock's throat. The man's chin was rough there, but the brush of his hair was soft. His mouth opened wide and Sherlock felt intimately how much of his throat Sebastian could have ripped into given the whim, but his teeth were gentle and his tongue was a lewd massage. 

All too soon Jim pulled away, releasing Sherlock to climb up him again. He took hold of Sherlock's hands and, with effort, drew him to rise out of Sebastian's embrace. "Turn over," Jim whispered.

Rather than obeying, Sherlock pulled Jim closer and wrapped his arms around him, breathing him in. He stayed that way for a few moments, but that was enough to communicate what was going through his mind. He released Jim slowly, and the look he gave Sebastian when he started to turn over was anything but certain. He'd seen enough of the blond's personality to have a fair idea of how far his tastes ran, and Sherlock wasn't certain that Jim's previous tips for obtaining dominance and respect would hold when Sebastian got him into a vulnerable position.

But Jim came down with him. lying on his side as close as he could, fingers drawing down Sherlock's neck. It was worrisome at first that Jim wasn't going to oversee this, even if he could prop himself up to see Sebastian, but when Sebastian's hands came, they were surprisingly gentle. Sherlock felt him slide up, settling himself atop the back of Sherlock's thighs. Not the best position to get free if he needed to, but... Jim's fingers stroked his hair. He directed Sherlock's attention to him when he leaned close for a kiss, but Sherlock could hear a cap opening and the wet slide of Sebastian pouring liquid over his hands and warming it. When Sebastian touched him though, it was practically a massage. Up the back of his thighs, over his buttocks, and down the small of Sherlock's back he moved the oil. 

There was no denying that Sebastian was being gentle, even soothing, but Sherlock still had a sliver of terror in his eyes. He kissed Jim back with a certain amount of desperation, trying to find reassurance when nothing was truly going to ease his worries but going through with it and seeing that they were unfounded.

Sebastian had to feel that Sherlock was tense. His hands paused and pressed every once in awhile, working knots out of his muscles. Sherlock was hyperaware every time Sebastian's fingers made contact with his skin, but the blond knew what he was doing. Gradually Sherlock's body responded to what Sebastian was doing, loosening up by degrees. Sherlock only tensed, rather than jumped, when he heard the bottle uncap again and fingers started circling his opening.

Just as slight pressure was applied Sherlock felt Sebastian lean over him. There was a kiss pressed to his shoulder before Sebastian angled his body to the side...to look at Sherlock as he did what he was doing. Jim's fingers encouraged him to turn his head and as soon as Sherlock did, blue eyes met grey. Sebastian didn't look like he was about to hurt Sherlock. Not even for a bit of fun. Then Sherlock felt the pressure intensify, felt himself being breached, and it didn't hurt, not with only one finger, but this was Sebastian and somehow...Sebastian was going slowly. Not at all like he'd been at the club. 

Sherlock felt the press of Jim's temple to the back of his head and knew that Jim was smiling. 

Sherlock didn't look away. He didn't _want_ to look away. Sebastian looked markedly different than he'd been before, on the rooftop and later when Sherlock had cornered him in his room. The first time, he'd been predatory and only partially restrained, and that mostly in accordance with Jim's wishes. The second time had been a heady mix of pain and dominance, with Sebastian on the losing side, but only just due to Jim's councelling.

Sherlock was having trouble reading Sebastian's expression. Perhaps it was a mark of just how inexperienced he was with some areas of the human condition - he could see the man's focus, his intent, the lack of aggression... but not what else laid underneath the calm.

But then the man leaned in and kissed him, and it was slow. Sebastian's teeth gripped his lip, but didn't bite. It was almost languid. His finger slid in farther, deepening its little back and forth motions to worm its way inside more easily. There was lust, that was easy to see when he could feel the hardness underneath Sebastian's trousers as he let his body brush against Sherlock. But when he brought his other hand up to Sherlock's face as they kissed deeper, Sherlock suspected there might have been something more. Sebastian may have never been able to do this with Moriarty, it was impossible to know without confirmed from either man, but he might have wanted to. He might have wanted to do this with someone...someone he could respect. One could only hope that wasn't just wishful thinking because soon enough he added another finger inside Sherlock. 

Sherlock gasped around the kiss and he squirmed. Where Jim's hands were more tapered and delicate, the hands of someone who worked behind the scenes... Sebastian's were thicker, blunted, and calloused from years in the field. Lubrication went a long way, but Sherlock could still feel the difference between two of Jim's fingers, and two of Sebastian's. The blond paused long enough to make certain Sherlock wasn't in actual pain, and Jim's hands stroked down Sherlock's neck and back, and all of a sudden Sherlock felt the tension leave his shoulders.

He had Sebastian on one side, Jim on the other. Both pressed close. Both attentive. Jim's mouth moved to the crook of his neck and Sebastian's fingers began working again. He studied Sherlock's face carefully. If Sherlock wanted him to stop, all he had to do was wince. As soon as he was open enough, however, Sebastian shifted to work at another angle. Sherlock felt his fingers press, searching, and there, he found that sweet spot. Jim's lips curled against his ear when Sherlock shook. His arms went around Sherlock's waist, wanting to feel the shiver run through him. 

A helpless sound escaped Sherlock, but it was anything but pained. He scrabbled for purchase, something to hold onto and ground himself with; two different hands found his and held him still. Sebastian was still being gentle, but he wasn't letting up. He seemed fascinated by the reactions he was getting with just the slightest crook of his fingers. Sherlock was quivering, lips parted and breathing ragged, pupils blown wide from pleasure.

When Sebastian added a third, the stretch wasn't as forgiving and the rhythm slowed, but he didn't lose his place. 

Jim was the first to rise. He lifted Sherlock after him with a bit of coaxing and the relent of Sebastian's torture. Sebastian, who took that moment to finally undo the strain of his trousers. Sherlock heard him hiss as the fabric released, saw the man palm himself before Jim reached out and slapped his hand away. Sebastian made a frustrated sound, but Jim's mouth only curled in satisfaction before he turned back to Sherlock. His expression shifted, no less intense, but somehow...softer. 

Sebastian went for the oil again, laving a good amount of it over himself, quickly enough to keep Jim satisfied.

Sherlock was on his knees, not quite certain what he was supposed to be doing. Jim's enigmatic smile told him nothing. Nothing except for the fact that Jim was pleased with what he had planned and was enjoying the view.

A warm body shifted forward behind Sherlock, and suddenly all of his attention was focused on a hard line of heat pressing against the cleft of his arse. Sebastian's arm snuck around him, but he wasn't pulling Sherlock back yet. Lips pressed to the back of Sherlock's neck, but all Sherlock could think about was what was going to come next. Sebastian was clearly waiting for Jim to signal them to proceed, and Sherlock knew that Jim wasn't going to make him wait very long.

Still, Jim scooted up closer, slim hands moving to either side of Sherlock's face. He bent for a kiss, gentle, but Sherlock could feel the excitement behind it. Not unlike Sebastian's continued kisses at the back and side of his neck. Jim caught his gaze, traced a finger down his bottom lip. Sherlock could see a hint of his teeth, not like Sebastian's smile at all, but Jim didn't need it. 

"Are you ready?" Jim whispered. Sherlock felt Sebastian take a breath. Jim wasn't talking to Sebastian, but his anticipation was still coiled tight as a spring. 

Sherlock looked up, feeling less like an equal and more like a supplicant before a lord. Jim's smile was more predatory than benevolent, and a quick glance put proof to the theory that he was a bit of a voyeur. As if Sherlock had had any doubts about that. 

Sherlock's hands settled on Jim's legs and he exhaled shakily. Terrified awareness still centered on Sebastian right behind him, angled and ready. Sherlock finally nodded. "...ready."

Jim's smile spread, little teeth revealing themselves in sharp points. Sebastian's arms shifted. His hand moved beneath Sherlock's stomach to press his hips up and the other disappeared until Sherlock felt something blunt press against that ring of muscle. Sebastian was guiding himself as he pressed forward, moving ever so slowly. It was a miracle he had enough restraint. 

"You can look," Jim said as nuzzled at Sherlock's cheek, dark eyes glancing over his pale shoulder. Sherlock felt the head of Sebastian's cock breach him. 

That in itself was a shock. Sherlock sucked in a breath, quivering, held still by both men. The burn was intense, and Sherlock felt stretched to the verge of breaking, but there were no sharp pains that signaled a tear. Sebastian was pushing forward ever so slowly, somehow able to resist the temptation to just thrust once he was in. Sherlock swallowed and craned his neck, trying to glance behind himself.  
Jim moved his hands so Sherlock could see. He had to twist, but when he did Sebastian lifted just enough for him. 

Sebastian was not little. And barely a third of him was in, which made it seem that much larger. Sherlock must have looked stricken because Sebastian's face split into a decidedly self satisfied grin. He bent down over Sherlock again, this time wrapping his arms around him, helping to hold him up, to keep him steady, and still Sebastian only moved in a little farther. "You alright?" he whispered in the curls at the nape of Sherlock's neck. 

Sherlock shuddered. He couldn't get the images out of his mind - the sight and feel of Sebastian impaling him in slow motion, or the memory of just how many sharp teeth were pressed close to his neck. And yet Sebastian was concerned, checking in with him. "....mmm. Alright. Just... not used to... _this_." Penetrative sex. Threesomes and voyeurism. Having a partner that made him question whether he was going to get split in two.

Jim was there at his side, hands drawing warm paths down his arms and over his cheek. He was so very tactile at times, and yet with every touch came soothing intentions. "That's alright," Jim said, smiling against Sherlock's temple. He could hear the lilt in Jim's voice, soft enough and deep enough and distracted enough for it to ring out. 

Sebastian kept going, letting Sherlock adjust whenever the muscles in his back tensed, until he was all the way in and panting over Sherlock's shoulder. They rested that way for a minute, Sherlock and Sebastian breathing deep, trying to get used to the feel, and Jim drinking them in. The way Sherlock's back was arched, with Sebastian pressing against him like that, wrapped up in each other...they must have looked quite obscene. 

Sebastian finally moved, just a shallow rocking motion, and that was enough for Sherlock's jaw to drop. It didn't feel pleasurable - at least not yet. Instead, Sherlock was caught up in a tangle of other emotions that sparked a different sort of thrill. He felt powerless, but in a way that didn't fill him with fear or anger; there was a certain freedom instead. Sherlock had the option to let go and trust that he would be alright, that he'd enjoy what was going to happen... because Jim was going to direct it and make sure he enjoyed it.

Sebastian and Sherlock were both, in a way, following Jim's orders. Sherlock was shocked to find that he was enjoying the twist that added to this.

Jim hissed in a way that might have been a 'yessss' but Sherlock couldn't be sure. He touched Sherlock instead of himself, reaching down to coil his hand loosely around Sherlock's cock, stroking slowly to watch it fill again. Sebastian groaned from above them, hips circling to create the friction he wanted without making any sudden stabs of motion, then pulling back slowly, as slowly as he could and pushing in again. When Sherlock's mouth fell open, Jim covered it with his own. 

Sherlock's body was finding it difficult to decide which way to move. Forward or back, each direction carried pleasure - the slide of Sebastian's cock inside him, or his own cock against Jim's palm, hands on his body and kisses on his mouth and neck. Sherlock leaned forward just a bit more, and Sebastian's next slow thrust managed to hit the perfect angle. Sherlock moaned into Jim's mouth and his grip on Jim turned white-knuckled.

"There you go." Jim grinned against him, but after a squeeze his hand slipped away, leaving Sherlock gasping at the loss. Sebastian thrust in again and Jim soaked up the pleasure that flashed across Sherlock's features. Sherlock felt the weight of Sebastian's head fall between his shoulder blades, hair soft and, in spite of everything, ticklish. 

After a minute or so of letting them get comfortable, Jim drew Sherlock upright, forcing Sebastian to move back as well. One look between them was all Jim needed to convey what he wanted, and Sebastian took Sherlock's hips and guided him back and down to a sitting position atop his lap. Back to front they were pressed together, Sebastian against the headboard, using it for stability.  
Jim licked his lips and crawled forward. Sherlock was splayed open to him now.

A flush of color spread across Sherlock's cheekbones. Sitting like this, he couldn't help but feel... odd about everything. He'd begun to get used to sex in general, but he'd started with a relationship that was taboo by several notches in society's estimation and only kept going. The three of them had been together before, more or less, when he'd started to interact with Sebastian, but...

Sherlock's position drove the point home. He was naked, legs spread out, with Sebastian behind him and in him and Jim would certainly be able to see everything at the current angle. Jim kept crawling towards him and Sherlock's embarrassment and shame didn't disappear, but it began to become overshadowed by lust. Particularly when Jim licked his lips again and let his gaze trail hungrily over Sherlock's skin. 

Jim's fingers touched his knees, slid up his thighs, dipped into Sherlock's hips so close to his erection, but he kept going until he was nearly pressed to Sherlock's front. "You don't have to be nervous," Jim whispered in his ear, even though Sebastian could probably hear he was so close. "You're with me now." 

Sherlock felt Sebastian's mouth against the top of his shoulder before Jim sank back down, eye on what he was after. He nestled himself there between Sherlock's legs and Sherlock felt Sebastian tense inside of him at the sight of it, of Jim slowly taking Sherlock into his mouth. 

Sherlock couldn't keep silent this time. Sensations bombarded him from both sides. Sherlock couldn't tear his eyes away from watching Jim swallowing him whole, and he was nearly overwhelmed.  
Sebastian's thrusts didn't match the slide of Jim's mouth at all. There weren't any split-seconds of relief, just continuous spikes of pleasure that occasionally fell into sync and left Sherlock moaning. His toes started to curl.

Jim gripped him, suddenly and rather forcefully, at the base. It was a surprise, and almost painful, but Jim looked up at him with wide eyes and satisfaction, tongue lingering at the tip just to torment Sherlock. Sherlock felt the scratch of teeth at his neck and heard a whispered " _Fuck_ " behind him. Sebastian's hips jerked, but he held on. He'd been moving slowly, had managed not to get as terribly worked up as Sherlock had. Though really that was Jim's fault. Jim who was pouring the oil over his own fingers now, leaning into Sherlock, and reaching behind himself.

"... _fuck_." Sherlock barely recognized his own voice. He couldn't stop a slight tremor in his limbs. Now that he'd had a preview, he had no idea how he was going to last through this. Sebastian had slowed down, and Jim was no longer touching him, but watching Jim finger himself was like torture. Sherlock felt his cock twitch against his stomach as Jim worked himself open, completely aware of the show he was giving Sherlock and Sebastian, and utterly smug knowing how it was affecting the both of them. "...Jim, you're going to kill me like this."

"I should have tried this first, then," Jim laughed softly, working his hips in a lazy circle over the fingers impaled inside him. When Sherlock hissed a breath through his nose, Jim reached out and took him in hand again, staving off the tightening in his gut with a hard grip. Then he began to climb up Sherlock's lap, hooking a leg around either side of him and slicking the head of his cock with the oil. The extra weight forced Sebastian to lean into the headboard, but he managed to hold them well enough as Jim lined himself up, bending, grinning, sinking slowly but smoothly onto Sherlock. His free hand reached for support over their shoulders, gripping the headboard, but Sebastian's hand reached up and caught his arm.  
Sherlock didn't make a sound, but his mouth opened as if he wanted to. His eyes were closed and he looked almost pained. His arms wrapped around Jim now that the smaller man was close enough. Sherlock felt like he was losing his mind, everything derailing and re-centering until there was nothing but this: heat and touch and sight, sound and the scent of sex, the boundary lines of their bodies becoming hazy while they merged into one another in a tangle of limbs and lust. Jim's body paused once Sherlock was fully sheathed, and Sherlock gave an experimental jerk of his hips. 

Jim's mouth dropped open and his eyelids shuttered. A breath of air escaped him, almost a whimper. Sherlock could see Sebastian's grip on Jim's forearm tighten out of the corner of his eye, but Jim didn't seem to notice nor care. 

Then he felt Sebastian move. It wasn't a subtle movement either. The way he rocked into Sherlock rocked into Jim and then Jim did let out a gasping whine. His fingers squeezed tighter around Sherlock's base, keeping the hold in spite of everything. Sebastian groaned and did it again. It took effort from his position, and strength, but he showed no signs of slowing down. 

There was nothing left for it but to hold on - almost literally. Sherlock's hands would leave bruises on Jim's skin from where he gripped him, and Sherlock's voice started to join Jim's. He'd been right upon the cusp of orgasm a few times now, enough that he was beginning to ache, and tension was building again. Jim's hand was tight enough that Sherlock wasn't going to be able to come until he let go. Perhaps that was Jim's plan, to make Sherlock beg for release before he finally allowed it.

Sebastian didn't have either the advantage of a strong grip nor just starting out. His thrusts were becoming more and more frantic, his breathing against Sherlock's neck more and more irregular. One of his arms worked in between Sherlock's front and Jim's back, the other reached around Jim as best he could, like Sebastian were trying to hold onto the both of them. His pants came woven with curses. Sherlock felt the bite of his teeth against his earlobe, thought he heard his name in between Sebastian's pants, and then Jim turned his temple from where it had pressed against Sherlock's to look into Sebastian's eyes. And curl his mouth into a smile. 

Sebastian jerked underneath them both. With a groan he came, hard, and Sherlock could feel every inch of it in the way his body, all of that sinewy muscle, gripped around his own.

Sherlock stiffened, eyes wide. He could feel Sebastian twitching inside him with release, and with the sensation he could feel himself hardening even further. Jim still wasn't letting him come; his grip was tight around Sherlock's base, enough that Sherlock gave him an imploring look. He let go of Jim's hip and, after spitting in his hand, began to stroke. He could still feel Sebastian's breath against his ear.

Sebastian's arms only released Jim, who had begun to take over the rhythm as it was difficult for Sherlock to move. Sherlock felt the soft fringe of Sebastian's hair brush his neck and the press of head as he bent into Sherlock. One of Jim's arms wrapped around his neck, the other wedged between Sebastian and his back, desperate for something to hold onto while Jim began to pant in time. He met Sherlock's gaze, but he didn't loosen his hold. Instead, he pressed their mouths together, lifting his body, sinking Sherlock inside of himself over and over. 

After so many times of coming close to completion and being thwarted, it didn't take long. Sherlock gasped into Jim's mouth, his hand tightening around Jim's cock while he came in spurts. The tension made his whole body tighten, bringing an awareness of Sebastian's cock - softening, but still inside him.  
A bizarre feeling flooded through Sherlock. He couldn't get close enough. He was inside Jim, wrapped around him, but all he wanted was to get closer. To bury himself in the man and never resurface, twined around him forever. He wondered if this was anything like how Jim felt.

The pace of his hand didn't slow, and as he rode through the aftershocks he heard Jim gasping, whining his name, felt him writhing on Sherlock, the sensations overwhelming. Jim wouldn't slow down, even with Sherlock's arms wrapped tightly around him, until he came as well, face buried in Sherlock's neck. His body froze. Everything froze, like time restructured itself and extended the twisting heat and pleasure inside them, Jim's muscles quivering around Sherlock, the taut line of Jim's back arching, Sebastian's chest expanding and contracting against his own back. Until Jim drifted down from the high. 

Sherlock didn't want to let go. He kept Jim pressed tightly against him, heedless of the mess or the damp feel of sweat against skin. Sherlock was all too aware that this only existed in the dream; he'd wake up with Jim gone, untouchable, only a voice in his head and a feeling underneath his skin instead of a solid reality he could hold onto. The thought that they could have had this before, the waste of it all, was shattering, only slightly helped by the warmth surrounding him.

Jim's head turned. He pressed a kiss to the side of Sherlock's cheek. Sebastian held them both. Sherlock felt him, saw him out of the corner of his eye, hooking his chin over Sherlock's shoulder. 

To think, a mind palace could accommodate people all along. Of course Sherlock would not have known without Jim's intervention, but the three of them filled its space with life. More life than the outside world could ever contain, at least for Sherlock. Jim had been infatuated with the idea. Of staying here.  
One dark eye peered up at Sherlock. It was impossible to see Jim's expression with his head buried like that, but he held on just as tightly.

Sherlock couldn't bear it. His head lowered until it rested against Jim's shoulder, hiding his face from view. He was certain Jim had figured out what he was thinking anyway. Jim couldn't read Sherlock's thoughts here, but the way Sherlock clung to the man and the slight dampness against Jim's shoulder would have told him everything regardless. Sherlock was mourning less for the loss of his old life than he was for opportunities squandered, for the fact that he was leaving the country with Sebastian and there would be one extra empty seat on the plane between them where Jim should have been. It was only a minor consolation that he carried Jim with him.

Fingers slid up the back of Sherlock's neck and into his hair. Even Sebastian must have understood what Sherlock was thinking because he moved just enough to make Sherlock more comfortable and stroked a warm hand up and down his side. 

Jim wouldn't say that it was going to be okay. It was never going to be okay. Sherlock would go on living. Sebastian would help him through the rough spots. He would have Jim's mind but never as it could have been. Jim would remain elusive, still ever out of his reach. Except here. 

"Please." Sherlock's whisper was barely audible. Things had come full circle now. Sherlock had wanted nothing more than to be free of Jim, to have him expelled from his body and mind, and now he couldn't get close enough, couldn't have enough of him. He'd become like Sebastian, addicted. "I don't want to go. It isn't the same."

He felt Jim's eyelashes flutter against his temple. Jim was staring into him with half lidded eyes. "Stay with me," warm lips murmured against Sherlock's cheek. 

Sebastian remained silent against Sherlock's back, but there was no mistaking the way his arms tightened. 

Jim kissed Sherlock's ear. If he'd been able to feel Jim's emotions, ever, he was certain he would feel an echo of his own turmoil. Jim's heart was beating solidly against his chest. He would never feel that anywhere but here. 

"...I can't." Sherlock knew he would wake up eventually. The choice was that, or going into a coma and slowly slipping away. Nothing in the dream was truly real except for themselves - it would be a hollow existence of delusions, even though that wasn't much of a difference from the waking, living world. Sherlock had only just begun to feel some sort of connection to Sebastian, but he knew well enough that losing Jim again, losing Sherlock now, would destroy him. "I can't stay here. Not yet. I don't want to leave, but I can't stay yet. There's too much we haven't done."

"One day you will," Jim whispered, but he drew back enough to look at Sherlock. His body was relaxed again, fingers drawing idly through Sherlock's hair and over the places Sebastian wasn't pressed to his back. Jim kissed Sherlock in what was, compared to before, a rather chaste motion. The room around them was beginning to fade. Sherlock could see parts of the living room he'd woken in through the walls. A smile drew up Jim's mouth and he regarded Sebastian. "You take care of him for me." 

"I will." Sebastian's breath caught and Sherlock felt it. 

Jim reached out to draw Sebastian to him. He nipped at Sebastian's bottom lip before Sebastian pressed their mouths together. Jim's fingers slid through short strands of blond hair before they parted, sealing his command. 

Sherlock could feel Sebastian's emotions play out in the way his body shifted and tightened, even though the man didn't make a sound. 

He knew Sebastian would keep to his promise. He probably would have even if Jim hadn't sworn him to it. Sherlock was more than just a vessel carrying around the object of Sebastian's desire now; he was a secondary desire in and of himself. Sebastian would shadow him to the end of his days, a solid presense in a way that Jim couldn't quite be anymore. 

Their bedroom lost its walls to the creeping darkness. The lamp beside their bed began to grow insubstantial and with it, the light. Sherlock felt Sebastian lay a kiss against the side of his neck. The world was fading, but none of them would move. 

Sherlock could feel Sebastian's body tense as they lost more and more of their sight, as everything began to drift away. Jim smiled, barely visible anymore, serene and motionless as a statue waiting to crumble into dust until Sherlock brought him together again. 

Sherlock's consciousness faded with the light. The last thing he felt were the warm bodies of both men wrapped thoroughly around him. 

Hours later, he became more and more aware of a heaviness throughout himself. It took several minutes before Sherlock realized the sensation was, in fact, due to someone on top of him, weighty enough that his breathing was shallow and strained. His hands rose with great effort, feeling blindly until Sherlock touched cloth, skin, short hair. Memories began flooding back. "...Sebastian. Wake up."

"Mmf," was all he got at first. Sebastian lifted his head when Sherlock shook his shoulder. He blinked blearily. 

They were back in their hotel, lying atop the sheets of their single bed. More specifically, Sebastian was lying atop Sherlock who was lying atop the sheets. It was still dark out, but it had to be close to morning. The night sky outside their window held just the barest hint of light. 

Carefully, Sebastian scooted himself to Sherlock's side. He lay boneless like that, one arm over Sherlock's chest, unwilling to move farther. "'Morning."

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath before he answered, eyes fluttering closed. "...morning." Waking to another physical presense was odd, but not unwelcome given the circumstances. It kept a bit of the reality of the situation at bay. They'd be leaving this morning as soon as they were able - destination unknown, but somewhere far enough that it would be difficult for MI6 to track them down. For Mycroft to track them down. 

Sherlock's hand rose and settled on the side of Sebastian's head, just enough to feel a ridge of scarring beneath his palm. "You seem to have slept well enough."

He caught the man's smile into the blankets. 

"Thank you. For last night." Sebastian really didn't need to clarify. Still, it was a surprise to hear from him. Then again....it had meant a lot to Sebastian. More than he would say, probably. If there was a chance they could do this again, Sebastian would jump at it. 

Wherever he was, Jim was silent. Resting, assumedly. Their escapades last night would have taken a toll on him.

"You're welcome." Sherlock didn't know what else to say. Their tentative understanding had grown a little further, but Sherlock still didn't quite know exactly where they stood with one another. The relationship between himself and the blond was vastly different than the one between himself and Jim, and it was sure to change even more if they were going to be stuck on the road together, moving and doing jobs as they went. "...happy you missed those shots, now, I should think."

Sebastian turned his head. His smile curled. "Absolutely." He leaned in to kiss Sherlock, somewhat of an apology. When Sebastian drew back, he paused, looking at Sherlock. They were both a little wrecked, dazed from sleep and, not sticky any longer, but exploration in the dream world had left plenty of evidence in the real world. They would both need a good hot shower. But Sebastian was looking at him...a lot like Jim sometimes looked at him. Trying to look _into_ him, to see what Jim saw in Sherlock. Sebastian must have been satisfied, because the corner of his mouth lifted again. "C'mon, time to pack up." And then he was off the bed, awake and moving all at once. 

Sherlock turned to roll off the bed and _winced_. The night had left more than residue behind, it would seem. Jim had previously left him sore, but size apparently made a difference both in the moment and with the aftermath. Sherlock grabbed fresh clothing out of his suitcase and headed towards the small bathroom with a stiff expression. He didn't look at Sebastian; he was certain he'd see a smugness on the scarred man's face that would make Sherlock want to deck him.

Two hours later Sherlock was sitting next to Sebastian aboard a jet pointed toward Thailand. A small airline, a modest cabin crew, two falsified IDs they'd both had from the start, and they were ready for a new beginning. 

Sebastian was so far his usual silent self, taking up the isle seat so Sherlock wouldn't have to. He fielded offers from an overly helpful flight attendant and got Sherlock a club soda. 

Jim remained silent. Sebastian didn't ask. Everything rested in the present now. Their past was fading away, ever quicker as the captain's cheerful voice laid in their destination and travel time over the cabin address and faster still as the plane taxi'd out onto the runway, gaining momentum, gaining flight. Neither of them could predict the future. All they had was something to aim for and if they missed, well, they would have to find another way. There was no looking back or forward, only now. 

Sherlock looked out the window as England receded and then disappeared under cloud cover. There was no telling if he'd ever set foot on British soil again. No telling, either, where their final destination might be. All Sherlock had was himself, and the ghost he carried with him, and Sebastian beside him.

Sherlock reached over, subtly grabbed Sebastian's wrist, and squeezed. They'd make do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally we've come to an end. Thank you so much for reading and sticking with us all the while. We appreciate it so much.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Come say hello on tumblr. 
> 
> x57 : [http://the-piper-of-hameln.tumblr.com/](http://the-piper-of-hameln.tumblr.com)  
> SilusLocke : [http://silusl.tumblr.com/](http://silusl.tumblr.com)


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